Rebels in the North
by Marianne Bennet
Summary: "Cousland walks in to speak to her father and Arl Howe. With her is Nathaniel Howe.." Eliante Cousland is forced to examine her frayed relationship with Nathaniel Howe at the worst of times. But when betrayal and tragedy strike, they find themselves thrown together by forces they cannot control, reaping the results of childhood mistakes and the sins of their fathers.
1. Poor Planning and Bad Weather

**Rebels in the North**

* * *

A/N: My mind decided to go chasing Mabari Plot Puppies and I have ended up deciding to adopt one from the lovely **Arsinoe de Blassenville** that goes along the lines of _Cousland walks into the Great Hall to speak to her father and Arl Howe. With her is Nathaniel Howe, just back from the Free Marches. _I'm bending it a bit to suit my tastes but the original idea goes to her! Merci beaucoup!

* * *

**Chapter One: Poor Planning and Bad Weather**

Eliante Cousland had had twenty years' training in the ways of the respectable albeit perhaps unconventional Fereldan noblewoman. She could speak fluent Orlesian and carry on a conversation in passing Antivan, thanks to her sister-in-law. She could dance the Remigold and the Saltarello, play the lute and the gittern passing well, and knew nine different stitches. Of course, she was also quite talented at the arts of lock-picking, archery, trap-making, and decapitation. Several of these various skills had given both her dear Nan and a few of her miscellaneous suitors some pause.

Well, most of them.

It was for this reason that she had chosen to arrive in the Great Hall still garbed in her practice armor, a fine sheen of sweat shimmering across her forehead. If Arl Rendon Howe, her father's great friend, had decided to bring along his son Thomas, as he had often hinted at during dinners at House Cousland in Denerim, Eliante was hardly going to present herself perfectly coiffed and gowned, like a trussed-up ham at a Wintersday Feast. In truth, she did not know why Arl Howe bothered at this point to play for a Cousland marriage. Maybe he thought third time would be the charm. He would be mistaken.

Highever Castle was alive with activity. Guardsmen in Cousland livery marched down the open-air passages as servants darted between and amongst their ranks, chattering about blankets to find, rations to set aside for the troops. Her heart twisted slightly between her ribs. After all, this was all just a continuous reminder that while every other able-bodied man and woman with training by the sword or bow was marching south to glorious battle with her father and brother, the youngest Cousland was being babied and coddled, left behind to play house in an empty manor with her mother and nursemaid.

She would complain that it wasn't fair but she knew that would risk sounding like the infant she was being made out to be.

Eliante pushed open the double-doors and walked into the shade of the Great Hall, her mouth set in a steady line of resentful resignation, her mind compelling icy cool indifference from her heart at the plain injustice of Fergus getting to go off to war when he had a wife and child and she being left behind. What she was not prepared for was that it was not Thomas Howe standing beside his father, shifting from foot to foot, ill at ease in the doublet and trousers that had never seemed to suit his character, brow and mouth set in an expression she knew too well: it was Nathaniel.

Why had no one seen fit to warn her?

It was a true testament to her good breeding that she did not spin on her heel and walk out or pull the bow from her back and notch an arrow, prepared to fire at what seemed most convenient: the doorjamb across the room, the cold pork left over from supper on the table, the offending party himself. Her father had not yet turned away from his conversation with the arl himself; there was still a moment to whip out the arrow, lay it flat against the bow's cool wood, pull back the string, and let loose. But no. _He _was looking at her now, even if no one else was.

Why had no one warned her?

Arl Howe and her father had been speaking of darkspawn when she entered the room but their talk quieted quickly once they caught sight of Eliante's arrival. Her father was a tall man with a crop of graying red-brown hair that had once been the shade of his daughter's and strong features that bordered on being too square for traditional good looks. He seemed a bear in contrast to Howe's hawkish appearance. The Arl was thin and all angles, even when standing tall.

"And here's my girl now," her father said, turning toward her with a tight smile. "Arl Howe has just arrived, Birdy. Did you leave your mother upstairs?"

"She's with Lady Landra," Eliante answered quietly. "I don't think she predicted you would arrive so discreetly, my lord Arl."

"Poor planning and bad weather delayed my men," replied Arl Howe with a shrug, "as did… unexpected developments. I'm sure you remember my son Nathaniel." Was it her imagination or did she see the shadow of a smirk in that statement. "He's recently returned from his squiring in Starkhaven."

"I can see that. Is he here to stay this time or can we expect him to run off again?" she asked evenly in response and Arl Howe chuckled.

Nathaniel's expression tightened slightly, whether in response to his the sound of his father's laugh or the cold gaze she directed his way. "I came back to fight the darkspawn," said the younger man coolly, eyes fixed on her. "I'm not one to remain abroad when there's a threat to my homeland."

"It's not my choice that keeps me home when there's work to be done," she retorted and her father frowned.

"The matter is closed," Bryce Cousland reminded his daughter and when she turned to glare at him in response, for his answer, for not allowing her to accompany him and Fergus, for not warning her, he was struck for a moment by her resemblance to her mother. He softened his tone. "You know that you're needed here."

"Hardly a moment ago, you said that there was no telling your daughter what to do," said Arl Howe with a smirk. "I can now see what you mean. But truly, my dear, the warfront is no place for a noble lady, especially when it comes to the darkspawn. The reports from the front lines tell of men strung up by their ankles and left to rot in the wilds, mutilated corpses dangling from trees, men dragged off by ogres and the like to what purpose we can only imagine–"

"I think you've made your point, Rendon," spoke up Bryce, a note of sharpness in his voice. "This is my daughter that you're telling this to and on the eve of when her father and brother depart for the front lines. We cannot linger on tragedy. And I would that you would excuse her impertinence. Her inexperience speaks for her and understandably so, for she is hardly twenty."

"Only a year younger than Nathaniel," Eliante pointed out, ignoring the twist in her belly at the sound of his name coming from her lips. Why had no one warned her?

"Forgive me if I would like to keep at least one of my children out of this war," Bryce snapped at her. She flinched despite herself. "Go to," he told her. "Find your brother, tell him he must leave ahead of us with our men, and I will see you at dinner after the Arl and I discuss strategy. And there will be no more talk on this matter, understood?"

"Understood," she repeated, taking a step back toward the door. "Don't strain my abilities or anything."

"Don't strain my patience, little bird."

The remark was directed at her retreating back, as she stalked toward the door. There was a rustle of movement behind her and suddenly another hand was placed above hers on the door, holding it shut. She looked up and to the left, saw Nathaniel looking down at her, his expression something more intense than the insolence they had exchanged earlier.

"May I speak with you?" he asked.

"No," she replied.

"It's urgent."

"I don't care."

"Please."

Something in that word almost caught her. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, reminding herself that she was not something to be caught. But Arl Howe's voice saved her:

"Nathaniel. We need you here during these discussions, especially since young Fergus is riding ahead to the south."

Nathaniel's hand did not move from the door. "Please," he said again.

She heard Arl Howe sigh heavily at his son's inattention to his call. She heard her father clear his throat. She looked at Nathaniel again. "We have nothing to say to each other," she told him, her voice quiet so only he could hear, and only then did his hand drop and she went out.

* * *

"Why did no one warn me?"

From the stone floor, Hunter whined along with his mistress. Eliante's slender fingers curled tightly around the bedpost as the Teyrna's lady's maid yanked at the laces of the corset that encompassed the young woman's already slender waist. In Eliante's opinion (not that anyone seemed to care about that these days), it was far too hot for this sort of nonsense; she could already feel the telltale prickle of sweat dripping down between the inner boning of her ribs and the outer of the corset with only the thin sheets of her shift and skin separating one skeleton from the other.

For what seemed to her the umpteenth time, Teyrna Eleanor Cousland lifted her silvery blonde head from the mass of tangled jewelry she had unearthed from her daughter's dresser drawer and sighed. "Darling, we didn't know. Rendon didn't write ahead to tell us that he was bringing him; I'm not sure he even knew Nathaniel was coming home when he wrote us. And you saw them before I did. There was no way I could tell you ahead of time."

"Father could have sent his man upstairs with the news when he came to fetch me," Eliante grumbled before a particularly harsh pull of the stays incited a shallow gasp from her lips.

The Teyrna lifted a slender silver chain set with a delicate emerald from the mess in her lap, lifting it up to the light for inspection. "I cannot believe you left this all to tarnish. These pieces would suit you very well, you know, and some of them are quite old."

"Then give them to Oriana," her daughter replied, taking slow, shallow breaths as the maid tied off the laces. "And don't tell her about Nathaniel. She'll have conniptions over the impropriety."

"What was so improper about it to warrant conniptions?" Eleanor asked, looking past the jewels in her hand to gaze frankly at her daughter.

Eliante flushed deeply, deeply thankful that she was turned away so that her mother could not perceive the hot shame that flooded her face. "I misspoke," she replied somewhat lamely. "Impropriety is not the right word; you know Oriana. She turns everything into one of those Antivan romances."

Her mother sighed again. "That she does. But, little bird, no one knew you were so affected by it, and the betrothal was ended nearly four years ago besides."

"I am not affected," she started to protest, spinning around to face her mother as the maid bobbed a curtsey and took her leave, and then ceased, seeing Eleanor's skeptical expression. "I am… taken aback. You know that I haven't seen him since he left for the Marches."

"And he has probably grown up since," Eleanor pointed out, "As have you, my bird. And people change. You must always remember that."

"If I'm so grown up," replied Eliante, looking at her reflection in the polished metal of her mirror, "why do I get to stay behind when I could make a difference in the south? They say we nobles make sure to have two children: an heir and a spare. Am I just the spare then?"

"You are your father's and my darling girl," said the Teyrna, setting aside the tangle of chains and pendants to rise and set her hands upon her daughter's shoulders, "and we do not want to risk you while your father and brother are in danger in the south."

"I could do with a little danger," Eliante muttered.

"You say that now," replied Eleanor reprovingly, "as did your father before the Rebellion, I'm sure. If you keep saying such things so rashly, your opinion may quickly change, as his did. Think of it this way, birdy: tomorrow morn, young Howe will ride off with his father and yours to battle and you will be rid of him."

"And I will be grateful."

"So you will be. Just suffer through one dinner, my little bird. Just one dinner, is all I ask of you." Eleanor smoothed a hand through her daughter's hair, so similar in color to that of her husband's. "And then your father and I will arrange that you need not see him again in such… intimate circumstances."

Like a flower turning to the sun, Eliante turned to look at her mother behind her. "Landra will be at dinner also, no? With her son?"

"Dairren. Yes, we weren't about to make him eat in the kitchens." Eleanor frowned. "Why?"

"No reason in particular," replied Eliante carelessly. "Can you hand me that brush?"

* * *

Arl Howe had been correct on one matter: the weather _was_ terrible.

The poor servant bringing the first of the meat course was positively bedraggled as the hall door swung shut behind her, muted the sound of the howling wind and pouring rain. Eliante swirled a bit of Nan's bread in the dregs of her soup as she listened to her father and the Arl discuss the battles in the south and the king as they conversation wafted down the length of the table:

"Sighard wrote to tell me that the king is telling anyone who will listen that he will slay the Archdemon with Maric's blade," said Bryce over his wineglass.

"If this even is a real Blight," sniffed Howe as the shivering servant set down a covered platter before him. "Part of me wonders if Cailan's not just trying to glorify a few skirmishes to impress the Orlesians."

Bryce paused before taking a sip of his drink. "The Orlesians? What have they got to do with anything?"

"Their chevaliers have been sniffing at our borders, if you hadn't already noticed," replied Howe.

"From what I understood," said Lady Landra, seated at Eleanor's left, "those were Grey Wardens that the king has invited to fight with our troops against the darkspawn."

"Oh, I'm sure that's what the story is;" said Howe, "but Orlesian Grey Wardens are Orlesians after all. Besides, there's been nothing heard of any Wardens being invited in from somewhere else, like the Marches, isn't that right, Nathaniel?"

"I can't speak for all of the Free Marches," answered his son. "I was only in Starkhaven these past few years, after all."

Howe's lips curled. "And doing little of use it seems."

"Well, I hope Loghain is able to convince the king of a more realistic strategy to defeat the darkspawn," said Eleanor quickly, drawing the conversation elsewhere.

"Cailan is a child," Howe sneered. "He ought to listen to his elders but I rather doubt he will. This seems to be the tune of this generation."

Eliante cast a glance at Nathaniel, seated across the table and down one place, tracing the line between the hard look in his grey eyes to the napkin clutched in his fist. There had been a time when she might have been able to make a face at him and bring a smile to his lips, or, bolder, reached across and gently unfolded his fingers from the cloth. But times had changed and so had they.

"At least the queen is sensible enough," said Eleanor, picking at her dish of whitefish.

"She is her father's daughter," remarked Bryce with a wry smile, catching Eliante's eye. Eliante looked away: not quite ready to make peace.

Her eye fell instead to the table, watching as Lady Landra reached for her third glass of wine and as her son Dairren's hand gently pulled it away out of her range as he conveniently reached for a dish of small birds in a light sauce. She caught his eye and smiled slightly, letting him know that the gesture had not gone unnoticed. Dairren's face colored in return, perhaps out of a combination of embarrassment and gratitude for her acknowledgement. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught Nathaniel glower.

"Your son's wife isn't dining with us," Eliante heard Howe remark as she fiddled with the napkin in her lap, suddenly at a loss of appetite.

"She's taking her dinner upstairs with our grandson," Eleanor answered. "It's Oren's first night he can remember without Fergus. I'm worried that this entire campaign will be hard on the both of them."

"As it is on all of us," said Landra with a quaver in her voice. "My husband is already at Ostagar and Dairren will be riding south tomorrow as well."

"Only as a squire," Dairren replied. "You needn't worry so, Mother."

"You should know better than to tell a mother not to worry," said Eleanor, her jovial tone belying a sadder tune to her words. "You all should."

Bryce and Howe turned the conversation to the Orlesian occupation, as the arl so often did, with occasional input from Eleanor and Landra. Eliante resumed picking at her plate of food.

Nathaniel leaned forward, eyes intent on her cheekbone for she would not turn her gaze towards him. "Are you so certain that you cannot lend me your company for a moment?"

"Is it not enough that I am sitting at a table with you?" Eliante muttered back at him across the table, still without looking directly at him. "If you have something so critical to say, out with it already. Plenty of opportune moments are passing."

"A private moment," he clarified, the corners of his mouth tightening.

"No. Dairren, so you will be riding as my father's squire?"

Dairren choked a little on his drink, surprised to be so abruptly addressed. "Um, yes? I mean, yes, I will be. I'll be seeing after his armor and his horse and the like and hopefully I'll see some fighting while I'm at it."

"Yes, that would be the point of going off to war," muttered Nathaniel into his wineglass.

Eliante smiled brilliantly at Dairren. Encouraged, he asked, "And what might you be occupying yourself with while your father and brother are away, my lady?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Eliante idly, tracing patterns in a bit of spilled wine on the table with her index finger. "I might go out riding, hawking, dissuade my mother from ordering me dresses, do a bit of baking… I can make almond pudding."

This time Nathaniel choked on his wine. Drawing his sleeve across his mouth, he said, "You left out the part where you hole yourself up in the guards' training room and hack away at practice dummies until they find themselves short a head and all their limbs. You can be honest, you know," he continued with a smirk. "Your brother's wife isn't around to be scandalized."

"I think if we were all honest around this table, there'd be larger scandals at hand than headless dummies," she retorted.

"Well, I think that if I were left to my own devices in this castle, I would never leave the study," said Dairren, oblivious. "I noticed there was a particularly impressive copy of _The Dragons of Tevinter_."

"Yes, it was my grandfather's," replied Eliante blandly, still glaring at Nathaniel, who smiled crookedly back at her. "As was the study; I go there often."

"Do you have a favorite book, my lady?"

"_The Art of Passionate Love _by Brother Capria," she answered: her tone just as flat as before even as Dairren began to grin and Nathaniel's smirk turned into another scowl.

"Oh," said the younger nobleman. "I hear that was banned by the Chantry. It's understood to be quite—"

His response was cut short by a quick, surprised gasp of pain. Quickly, he looked to his mother across the table on Eliante's left, but she was quite absorbed in Eleanor's recounting of Bryce's recent trip to Orlais even as Arl Howe's expression grew sourer by the moment at the description. Eliante frowned and glared at Nathaniel. Nathaniel took a sip of his wine.

However, they seemed to have caught Bryce's attention. From down the table, he called, "Whatever you all are talking about, it sounds much more fascinating than some old chestnuts of war stories."

"I haven't the slightest idea of what you mean, Father," replied Eliante demurely, avoiding Nathaniel's eyes.

Bryce chuckled. "You see, Rendon? This is what I get for letting my girl make her own way."

"One to watch," Howe agreed with a smile that didn't make it to his eyes.

Eliante rose to her feet, the napkin falling from the green velvet of her gown. "I think I had better go up to bed before I fall asleep face first in the dessert," she declared.

"You'll be getting an early start tomorrow," Bryce nodded in approval. "Go on then, birdy."

She paused by her mother's chair, leaning down to kiss Eleanor's cheek. "Don't worry," her mother murmured. "I'll be here for a few days before going with Landra to her estate."

She nodded quickly, embarrassed over how easily her mother could read her, and followed the length of the table to her father's side. The teyrn grasped his daughter's hand tightly. "You will do just fine, birdy," he murmured, for her ears alone. "And you'll have plenty of adventures soon enough. Just you wait."

"Of course, Father," Eliante replied quietly, squeezing his hand. "I'll see you off in the morning. And my best to you as well, Arl Howe," she added, raising her voice slightly.

Howe blinked. "Thank you, my dear," he said, somehow embarrassed, "but that's quite unnecessary."

Walking to the door, something compelled her to glance backward. Nathaniel was staring at her with the same intensity.

_Please._

She opened the door and went out into the pouring rain.


	2. Some Love Lost

**Chapter Two: Some Love Lost**

_She was sixteen again and as gawky in her new green dress as her nephew Oren's new mabari puppy. From across the saloon, she saw him approach and, when he was within earshot, she quirked a smile and asked, "What am I supposed to call you?"_

_The question seemed to take him aback for a moment, understandably. It had not been _that _long since the days of childhood companionship. "Nathaniel," he answered, "as, barring any unforeseen circumstances, I'm no more an arl than you are a teyrna."_

"_Nathaniel," she repeated. "I heard the strangest bit of gossip. It appears that we're to be married."_

"_So I've heard," he replied with a wry smirk._

Eliante rolled over in her bed; eyes shut tight, memories drifting to the surface of her subconscious like smooth stones sifted in a pan of sand lifted from the darkness of a riverbed. The scene changed to a setting some months later:

_Her blue-gray eyes met his pure gray, her voice quiet, all too aware of their parents at the other side of the dining table. "I can get away if you can."_

_He shrugged. "Perhaps I feel like stepping out for a bit of fresh air."_

"_Maybe we'll run into each other," she replied._

"_If I'm lucky," he responded, extending his hand, palm up, awaiting hers._

_She gave him her hand with a smirk; he leaned forward and pressed his lips to its back. She felt his mouth curve into an answering smirk of his own against her skin before he straightened back up, having once again donned the dutiful smile that his father seemed to expect from him and left the room without another word._

She turned over onto her stomach, pulled her pillow over her head at the sharp knock at her bedroom door, perhaps mistaking it for more of the same thunder that answered the flash of light striking out from the window. Beside the bed, Hunter rolled over onto his feet, instantly alert, and trotted toward the door, sniffing suspiciously at the crack above the stone floor. He sounded a quick and urgent bark: that got her attention.

Eliante's eyes opened. Bracing herself up onto her elbows, she murmured, "What is it, boy? Did those rats make it up here from the larder?"

Hunter barked sharply once more and his call was immediately echoed by an equally sharp pounding against the door. Sliding out of her bed, Eliante tugged her nightshift into some semblance of decency before crossing the room. She pulled the door open… and then promptly pushed it shut, or would have if someone's booted foot had not firmly lodged itself in its path.

"We need to talk," said Nathaniel Howe, "and this time, I'm not taking no for an answer."

She knew that look: it was the typical Nathaniel expression that plainly stated when he had had enough. She had seen it often as a child, in moments such as those when she and Delilah had been at each other's teeth over who got to play the princess and who had to play the ogre. That phase had not lasted long; soon, Delilah found herself dressing her dolls alone while Eliante fended off the youngest Howe, Thomas, and his amorous advances with Fergus's old wooden sword and shield. Delilah had once confided in Eliante that she planned to grow up and marry Fergus; look at how well that had played out.

Now Eliante found herself wondering if she herself had been truly any less foolish.

"If you have something to say, go ahead and say it," Eliante said to Nathaniel, releasing her pressure on the door, feeling very old and very tired.

"My father's troops weren't delayed."

Eliante blinked. "And what has that got to do with anything?" After all that had happened between them, this was the monumental matter that he was forcing his way into her bedchamber to discuss?

"I don't know," Nathaniel growled, "and I don't know why. At first I thought it was to save face in front of your father; we don't have the men you have and my father didn't want to point that out by direct comparison. I _did _hear him speaking to his seneschal over the unevenness in numbers." Nathaniel rolled his eyes before his expression darkened. "Now, I'm not so sure that that's it."

"I'm not interested in your conspiracy theories, Nathaniel," said Eliante crossly, shifting from one bare foot to the other, shivering. She thought longingly of the warm sheets behind her and then of a day when she wished for the man in front of her to warm them for her and her mood darkened further. "This isn't that priest in Amaranthine you were convinced was embezzling Chantry tithe."

"That priest _was _embezzling," Nathaniel snapped, "but it's not the same. There is something _wrong _with my father. At first, I just thought it was me and my new perspective; I hadn't seen him in so long. But there is something wrong with him and there is something wrong with the delay and I need a second opinion."

There was a moment when Eliante did not how to respond. Then, finally: "This is what you wanted to talk about."

"Yes," he said.

"In the Great Hall and then again at dinner."

"Yes."

Her eyes traced the intricate carvings along the perimeter of the doorframe, just visible above his shoulder. "Well," she said slowly, "no sense in you standing out in the hallway where anyone can hear you."

He nodded, grateful, took a step forward, but then stopped, gray eyes lingering on her mostly uncovered shoulder. "Do you… want to put on a robe or something?" he asked, a little awkward.

"What does it matter?" she replied, bitter. "You've already seen every inch of me."

* * *

Hunter paced a limited circuit from bedpost to closed door, whining anxiously, as thunder boomed through the shutters and Eliante folded her arms. "So your father changed the conditions of the death penalty in Amaranthine. What of it?"

Nathaniel's expression was grim. "He didn't just change the conditions of it; he changed _it_. A simple hanging doesn't suffice anymore; a common highway man now meets the Maker after being hung, drawn, and quartered just outside the marketplace."

Eliante shrugged. "Capital punishment has always been public spectacle."

"Not to this excess," he objected with a growl, "and having common thieves suffer a traitor's death is a tad excessive, no?"

"There have always been problems with the Wending Wood," she pointed out, "and they've only gotten worse."

"They were even worse when I left."

"But you left," Eliante interjected quietly, "so you don't really know."

"He won't let me see my brother and sister and I've been told that he won't let them see anyone either," said Nathaniel, equally quiet, "and Bann Esmerelle sits in my mother's place at the dinner table in Vigil's Keep. And you've been _here _in Highever. So the truth is that you don't really know what's going on in Amaranthine either."

"And you do?"

"I know enough to know that something is wrong!"

"There are darkspawn in the south and you're all up in arms about these little things in the north."

"Little things in the north that the enemy in the south could take advantage of."

"What's the point in your father delaying his men?" asked Eliante as Hunter's whines increased in frequency. "Is he trying to keep out of the south altogether so he can continue cracking down in Amaranthine?"

"Maybe?" Nathaniel threw his hands up in apparent exasperation as a growl began to build in the mabari hound's throat. "If I had all the answers, I wouldn't be here, now would-"

He was cut off by Hunter's loud bark of warning. Snapping his teeth at the closed door, the hound looked back to his mistress to make sure she got the message.

She had. Taking a step forward, she pressed her ear to the door, frowning. "There's someone out there." She reached for the doorknob. "Did they really stay up this late or…?" _Or is it something else?_

"Wait," said Nathaniel in… warning? But it was too late.

Her silent question was answered when she pulled the door open a crack and an arrow embedded itself in the doorjamb to the right of her head.

Nathaniel moved quickly, firmly shutting the door and turning the key in the lock as Hunter held his ground directly in front of the entry, growling and snapping, ready for action. Shoving Eliante toward the closet, he issued the order, "Get dressed. Find a weapon."

"Fergus's room is just across the hall," she objected, blue-gray eyes wide and locked on her door. "Oriana can't… and Oren… and my parents…"

"You won't do anyone any good by running out there in your nightshift and getting yourself killed," Nathaniel replied tersely, finding her weapons' cabinet and selecting a compact short bow, the better to seal with the close quarters. With his back to her, she yanked on a pair of leggings, stuffing the hem of her shift into the waistband, white-faced and mumbling, before shrugging on a padded leather jacket; there was no time for the hassle of proper armor. She often wore a similar ensemble when she went hunting and trapping with her father and Fergus; those mornings already seemed so far away.

Nathaniel tossed her one dagger and then a second and she caught one after the other, stabbing the second through the loop in her belt. He found an empty quiver and searched in vain for arrows, spewing curses of his own. Accepting reality, he braced the bow onto his back and produced a blade of his own. Tense, he nodded at Eliante and, equally tense, she glanced at Hunter. The mabari bared his teeth. With an answering nod at Nathaniel, she unlocked and opened the door, and nearly slipped on the lifeblood of a Cousland guardsman.

There were men in blank livery at the door to her parents' bedroom; the door to Fergus's chamber was open wide but Eliante could not yet see its state. So concerned with breaking down the main bedchamber's door were the invading soldiers that they took little notice of Eliante and Nathaniel's arrival; the latter took this opportunity to swiftly bend down and gather a fistful of arrows from a fresh corpse's quiver, depositing the majority within his own, notching one and taking aim before pausing, grey eyes widening, "Henley? Peter Henley?"

One of the men –a tall but slimmer figure amongst the three intruders present, young with dark red hair and a pale red-gold fuzz about his chin –turned toward the voice but, before he could respond, one of his comrades looked to the interruption as well, eyes falling on Eliante. "It's the Cousland brat!" he yelled out. "Get her!"

"Adrick, what in the Maker's name–" Nathaniel started but it was either too late or there had been no chance at all. Adrick –stocky in dusty gray chainmail –charged forward and his fellows followed, weapons unsheathed, save the one Nathaniel had called Peter.

Adrenaline pounding in her ears, Eliante threw the dagger in her hand forward, unthinking in its trajectory, and so was shocked as the blade embedded itself in Adrick's uncovered throat. For his part, Nathaniel loosed the arrow in his grip, the point finding its home buried in the chink between chest and shoulder. A second man came up behind them; Eliante turned but Nathaniel was quicker, bringing the hilt of his own dagger crashing down on the assailant's uncovered forehead.

Eliante froze, eyes fixed on the fountain of blood outpouring from the dent in the soldier's head as Nathaniel, mechanical in his movements, knelt and pulled her dagger from Adrick's throat. Handing it back to her, he said, voice dead, "You're a good aim."

Peter had pulled his sword free from his belt but had not yet moved to attack. Nathaniel turned his attention to him. "What the hell is going on? What are my father's men doing?"

"Nathaniel Howe?" said Peter, voice shaking. "We weren't told… no one said you'd be here."

"Little matter now," Nathaniel replied roughly, taking three quick paces forward. "Who's giving the orders here?"

"We thought you'd gone with the young Cousland to Ostagar. No one said–"

"No one said?" he repeated quietly, harshly, taking another step forward. "Then who did say? And what?"

"Your father said the Couslands were traitors," Peter babbled. "I heard 'em while I was polishing his breastplate. He said they was going to sell us all out to the Orlesians." His eyes fell on Eliante. "She –she was going to marry some Orlesian fop, I heard. Duke something or another; I don't know!"

"Where is my father?" Nathaniel interjected.

"I –I think he's downstairs. Somewhere. Not sure where. Maybe with –with the Teyrn?"

Eliante flinched at the prospect. Nathaniel looked to her. "What do you propose we do with the sod?" he asked her, his tone as numb as before.

"He's your man," she replied, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "You seem to… you seem to know him."

Nathaniel's lips curled in disgust as he regarded Peter. The soldier visibly cowered. "Go on, get," he snarled, jerking his head at the door. "You get yourself killed, I don't give a damn."

With a hasty nod, the man scrambled past them before turning at the last moment and jerking a quick half-bow of gratitude before disappearing down the corridor. Nathaniel sucked in air between clenched teeth. "I knew those men."

"I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not," responded Eliante, biting down on the inside of her mouth.

"I don't blame you," he replied with the ghost of a smirk just before the main bedchamber door flew open.

Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, in full battle regalia, rushed forward from the bedroom, sword and round shield in hand, sheathing the former only when her eyes fell on her daughter. "Darling, I heard the fighting and woke up. I had to bar the door and –Nathaniel? What are you doing here?"

"I take it you've noticed that my father's men are in fact not delayed," answered Nathaniel with the same bitter twitch of the lips.

"They're Howe's men, Mother," said Eliante, her fingers tightening around the dagger in her grip, "and I think they went into Fergus's room first."

"Maker," the teyrna gasped, pressing her palm to her mouth. "I don't want to know." But she rushed past towards the gaping doorway opposite Eliante's chamber all the same. A moment later, she sounded a harsh sob from within the room and Eliante raced in after her.

Oriana's body was tossed facedown over the edge of the bed she had once shared with Fergus, scarlet staining the hunter green coverlet and creamy sheets, her ivory skirt hiked up to indecent heights to expose pale thighs. Her face turned toward the door, her eyes were wide and unseeing, strands of pale brown hair falling against her agape mouth, sticking to the slightly crooked teeth she had always tried so hard to conceal.

"_In Antiva, a woman fighting in battle would be… unthinkable."_

Across the room, Oren lay crumpled on a small rug, limbs twisted under his small form like a ragdoll someone had discarded. Crimson pooled from his temples. His blue eyes –Fergus's blue eyes –were glassy and blank.

"_Is there really going to be a war, Papa? Are you going to bring me back a sward?"_

Eliante felt her dinner heave in her throat. She remembered it had been a dinner she had shared with the man who had orchestrated all of this before sitting down at their table and her stomach truly threatened to upset its contents.

"No, no, no, no," Eleanor was repeating over and over again, on her knees beside her fallen grandson. "He was just a boy, he was only a boy; he had nothing to do with anything, nothing to do…"

"Mother," said Eliante, trying to be gentle as she reached out before realizing her hand was stained with blood. She pulled back. "Mother, we can't do anything."

"I know," said the teyrna. "But Howe's not even taking prisoners. He means to kill us all. We need to find your father."

"We need to find Howe!" Eliante interjected forcefully; retrospectively grateful that Nathaniel had remained in the hallway with Hunter.

Eleanor rose to her feet, the sword at her back clinking metallically against her armored shoulder. "Howe," she repeated between her teeth. "I swear, I could tear his throat out with my teeth right now."

"I want him dead," Eliante agreed darkly.

"Then you should mind whose company you keep," her mother pointed out, quietly vicious. "What is he doing here with you?"

"He came to warn me, I think," Eliante replied, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. "But he didn't know what of. He didn't know this was going to happen. He killed his own men, Mother."

"And that's all very well," the teyrna responded harshly, "but you remember that above all else you must survive. He may be trying to help now, but he is his father's son, whether he knows it or not, just as you are my daughter. Now we need to find your father."

"And Howe," Eliante insisted.

"Survive," her mother said again, more forceful, "and visit vengeance upon him."

* * *

The gates would not hold for long. There seemed to be no end to Howe's men.

All around her was death. Death and destruction. Destruction and death. And she knew them. She knew them all, the faces of the people dying around her. She saw Geric from the stables, a man old before his time that had set her up on her first real horse, a blade bursting through his chest, splattering her boots with scarlet. She saw Esme, the elven Orlesian pastry chef that Nan had never seemed to make up her mind about, bouncing between admiration and jealousy: her throat torn out by an enemy hound, her body splayed across the steps to the chapel where she might have been seeking sanctuary. And then there was Gilmore, poor Ser Gilmore who had once tried to kiss her beneath an oak tree, ushering them from the Great Hall, pushing them towards the kitchen and the servants' passage while he awaited certain death holding the gates shut against the greater part of the army.

It did not occur to her that it must have been as bad if not worse for Nathaniel until she saw him bend down not to retrieve his arrows from an assailant's chest but instead to gently close the corpse's eyes with his fingertips.

Highever Castle was burning around them; even the torrent of rain did little to quench the flames. Hunter in the lead, Eliante, Eleanor, and Nathaniel followed close behind down the winding corridors, their collars yanked over their noses in an attempt to keep the smoke from their lungs. Suddenly, Eleanor paused, coming to a halt. "Wait. The family sword; we can't let it fall into enemy hands!"

"Mother, are you insane?" asked Eliante, turning to stare incredulously at her. "We can't risk everything for a couple pounds of metal, symbolic or not."

"It means everything to your father," she insisted.

"Our lives mean more!"

The shouting from the gates grew in volume; there was a cracking sound somewhere above their heads. Eliante looked upward just in time to see one of the exterior wooden supports give way and begin to falling crashing down.

She threw herself backward, toward Nathaniel, and stumbled into him, pushing them back down against the cobblestones and out of harm's way. He took the impact of the fall with a grunt; she fell back against his chest before scrambling to her feet. "Mother!"

There was no response. Fire began to lick at the fallen support and the rubble that had fallen from the Great Hall's walls with it; Eliante paid it little mind as she began to paw at the wreckage with her bare hands, crying out again and again in choked sobs that earned no reply, echoing the teyrna's cries upon the discovery of Fergus's family: "No, no, no, no, no, no…"

There was someone's hand on her shoulder; her immediate reaction was to spin about and lash out, ignoring her smarting palms, singed and specked with splinters. Fingers balled into fists, she beat hard against someone's chest, legs kicking out, catching on someone's calves, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes blind with rage and loss, until stronger hands wrapped around her wrists, holding fingers curled like claws away from his face. Her wild eyes locked on comparably calm gray ones and her blind rage began to soften into cool wrath.

"Kitchen," said Nathaniel softly. "Your father. We need to keep moving."

With some effort, she wrenched her wrists from his grip. "I know," she replied between clenched teeth. "I will never forgive your father for this."

"I know," he said and for a moment he seemed to curl into himself. "I don't think I will either."

* * *

The kitchen was dark. And she was cold. Soaked to the bone. But at least Howe's men had not lingered here.

"We need some light," said Nathaniel but Eliante merely traced her hands along the kitchen's perimeter, trying to find the pantry door. She tripped over something and nearly fell flat on her face, but she wasn't able to see what exactly it was until she located and kicked the pantry open, torchlight form its interior providing illumination.

She had tripped over Nan's body. She clamped one hand over her mouth to stifle the better part of a quiet scream.

Eliante stumbled forward, gaze darting back and forth in the shadowy half-light of the pantry before her eyes locked on her father. "Father!"

Nathaniel followed, more cautious, bow in hand, arrow notched, watching the door. Bryce Cousland smiled in relief at the sight of his daughter, his hand clutching at his side where the doublet had been ripped away to reveal torn flesh. "Tried… to find you," he managed, sweat trickling down his forehead, the elbow he had braced himself up upon shaking with the effort. "Howe… found me first."

"Oriana… and Oren… and Mother…" said Eliante, at risk of babbling out their names like a child. "They're… I couldn't save them. I wasn't fast enough; I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Father. I failed."

"It's not your fault," whispered Bryce. "None of this is your fault."

"It's just a little farther," said Eliante desperately. "We'll get out of here and find you healing."

But Bryce merely shook his head. "I won't survive the standing." His blue-gray gaze, so similar to his daughter's, fell again on Eliante, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly in another smile of relief before his gaze hardened, falling upon Nathaniel and the armed bow in his hands. "Come to… finish your father's job, have you?"

There was a moment where Nathaniel did not reply and Eliante saw herself in her mind's eye leaping to her feet, drawing blade to protect her family against the viper in their midst. But, slowly, Nathaniel shook his head and lowered his bow. "Teyrn Cousland, I had no idea of my father's intentions, I swear it. I had not seen him for years; he did not confide in me. In truth, I wondered why he did not wish me to accompany him here; now I see the reason very clearly. I would never wish you or any of your family harm."

"A pretty speech," replied the teyrn ironically before quickly drawing in a pained breath.

"It's meant," said Nathaniel staunchly, grim in tone and manner. "There is something rotten between my father's ears. This," he said with a meaningful look at Eliante, "simply proves that my suspicions were not mere conspiracy theories."

"Father, it matters little at this point," protested Eliante. "What matters is that we get you to safety."

"There's no hope to be placed in that," said Bryce with a pained shake of his head. "You must go, little bird. There is no other option."

"I will not leave you here for those dogs," his daughter snapped but the teyrn shook his head once again.

"Take the Teyrn then and go," said Nathaniel, turning to lift his bow and take aim at the pantry door. "I can cover you as you and your father escape."

"My place is by your side, Father," said Eliante quietly.

"Your place is with your brother," said Bryce, "and the both of you making your mark on the world, not being slaughtered in a pantry defending a man who is already as good as dead. You don't have time to argue this; go!"

"My lord teyrn," said Nathaniel, looking away from the door, "I can take your daughter and get them out of here. My father's men won't question me, not at first at least, should we encounter them. I can see them to safety. It's," he hesitated, "it's the least I can do."

"You think I would trust you with my daughter, Howe?" Bryce spat out, a bit of blood dribbling down his chin.

"I can see myself to safety, thank you," Eliante snapped.

"You don't have much of a choice," replied Nathaniel flatly, mouth twisting.

"You'll have a better chance if someone is left behind as… as a distraction," said Bryce quietly after a long moment, resignation and… and something else deepening the fine wrinkles between his eyes. "Birdy, go. Someone must find Fergus and tell him, and if Howe has something planned for him… you'll be faster without me."

"I'm not leaving you," Eliante protested, trying to blink away the dampness in her eyes. "Father, I can't. I already lost… I can't lose you too. I can't."

There were voices in the kitchen beyond the pantry. Bryce grabbed his daughter's hand and squeezed tight. "You have to." He exhaled laboriously and with a slight pained gesture of his hand beckoned Eliante closer. She leaned in, smelling the metallic scent of his death as he whispered for her ears alone: "Trust no one."

She blinked at him, brow knotting in confusion as the footsteps in the kitchen grew louder and she felt Nathaniel's fingers wrap around her upper arm. "We need to go," he said urgently.

As if in a daze, a dream, disbelieving of the world around her, Eliante allowed herself to be drawn up to her feet by her newly sworn enemy's son and pulled out of the pantry down the narrow passage to the outside.

* * *

_Obviously Duncan did not make an appearance at Highever Castle. I always thought that it didn't make much sense for him to be chilling with the nobility (humans or dwarves), wandering through the forest, or slumming in the Alienage or Dust Town when there is a Blight down south. The logical place for him to be in my opinion was always the Circle, where he can go recruit-hunting and also barter for mages for the king's army. After that, I don't think you all need three guesses as to where I've put him and his recruiting spiel._

_It was very difficult and in the end impossible for me to wrap my head around the Couslands allowing their daughter to run off to "safety" with Nathaniel Howe. Duncan was by all accounts an honorable man and, even if he was not so, he wanted the Human Noble as a Grey Warden recruit. Very different circumstances than when it's your new enemy's son. So unfortunately there was no way in my mind that an uninjured Eleanor would stay behind to defend Bryce if Eliante was heading off with someone who might do her harm. So Eleanor had to be out of the picture for my arc to work. No touching final scene with Bryce. Sorry._

_Updates going forward will be on Thursdays (well, my Thursdays, which are currently for the United States, late night Wednesdays.)_

_Please review. It's truly a huge help and a huge source of inspiration. On that note, thank you so much to everyone who has favorite-d and/or followed this story._


	3. The Home Front

_This chapter split into two and I couldn't resist updating. Also my next update may be late, given that I'm in the throes of finals, so here is my early apology. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Home Front**

Eliante was unsure of how much distance they had covered between them and the burning castle when her stomach did as it had been threatening to do and voided its contents.

Up came whatever remained of that last supper she had shared with her parents and their unknown enemy. It seemed her mind was intent on replaying all of the events of the previous day, lingering on any moment that retrospectively seemed a forewarning of disaster: a painful dumb-show that only ceased when the retching mercifully stopped. But something told her that it was probably only an intermission.

Someone's hands were holding her long dark hair up and out of the way. She registered this, staring down into the mess, until there was a tingle in her throat and someone who sounded distantly like her said, "Please don't touch me right now."

The hands at her hair promptly disappeared.

The storm was less formidable than before but the rain remained a presence all the same. Eliante cupped her hands and reached out, collecting rainwater in her palms to rinse out her mouth. She repeated the process twice, once more to take a long drink and then again to rinse off her face. Somewhere behind her in the darkness and the rain, Nathaniel said nothing, did nothing within her sightlines.

Nathaniel. Nathaniel Howe.

Mechanically, her hands reached back, a leather thong stretched between her fingertips, tying her hair back away from her face; no one need hold it back for her. She checked for her daggers at her belt, that the laces of her boots were tied tightly, before she slowly got to her feet. Methodically, she began winding a path between trees, running her hands along their trunks, checking for moss.

"What are you doing?" said Nathaniel from somewhere behind her, having followed her through the trees.

"Finding south," she answered, leaning her forehead against the cool, damp bark of an old oak.

"Are you planning to go fight darkspawn now?" he asked with a slight snort of disbelief.

"I'm planning to find Fergus," she replied calmly, shocked by her own composure. "If you want to fight darkspawn, you're more than welcome to. But someone has to tell Fergus and I'm my only reliable messenger right now."

"And you're willing to go all the way to Ostagar for that?"

"His men only have a day's lead," she said reasonably. "Not even that; I can make up the distance, catch up, and we can turn the army back north and take back what's ours. As you said, our men number more than your father's."

"That was before just about all of your guard were killed defending the castle," Nathaniel pointed out, "and I doubt my father let me find out the full extent of his forces. I'll wager our men match yours now and they'll have fortified themselves in your castle."

"Are you trying to convince me to just let your father have my land and title?" she retorted sharply. "Because that's not going to happen, especially since I just saw my parents die by his order!"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort," said Nathaniel in return, lifting his hands in his defense. The light of the moon between the clouds and the trees illuminated the edge of his face, leaving the rest in darkness. "But I stand by the point I made back at Highever: neither you nor your brother do anyone any good by getting yourselves killed out of turn."

"Every moment we delay, arguing about this, Fergus gets farther away!"

"Then find a goal that isn't going to get farther away," growled Nathaniel. "Denerim is only days away and the Queen is still in residence, even if Cailan is in the south. You can raise complaint there and find a 'reliable messenger' to contact your brother."

"'Raise complaint'?" Eliante repeated incredulously. "As though this is a squabble over a pocket of land or a tariff; he killed my family!"

Hunter butted his head against her thigh, whining anxiously at her distress. Nathaniel was silent, arms at his sides, his visible features unreadable.

Eliante watched him closely. "Do you want him to come to trial?" she asked, her voice carefully level. "Because, if he's tried, there is a chance he will be let off; is that what you want? You saw what happened; is there any doubt in your mind that he shouldn't hang or be run through like he ran through my father and left to bleed out on the floor of a Maker-forsaken pantry?"

Nathaniel didn't flinch at her outburst but instead remained as unmoving as a statue. She stared at him for a few long moments; he had his father's nose. In her mind's eye, the dumb-show resumed:

"_And my best to you as well, Arl Howe."_

"_Thank you, my dear, but that's quite unnecessary."_

She doubled over as her stomach heaved once more, spilling the last of its contents all over the moss that would have directed her south. She heard Nathaniel sigh softly as Hunter whined again in concern. "I saw a farmhouse not far out of the forest," he said; she wasn't sure if he was addressing her or her hound. "We can take shelter there."

Hunter barked in agreement. Begrudging and wordless for her churning belly, Eliante nodded her accord.

* * *

Sunlight lit up the space beyond her closed eyelids. Squinting, she caught sight of a girl in a homespun dress hiding behind a half-open door before squeaking and slamming it closed, her hastily scampering steps audible beyond the cracked wood. After a moment's processing, Eliante sighed and allowed her head to drop back against the improvised pillow of her leather jerkin and her body to sink deeper into the straw that served as bed.

Dagger into his lap and sword to one side, Nathaniel was passed out to her right, dark head tipped back against the barn's wooden doorframe, mouth slightly agape, the once vivid streaks of blood on his clothes darkening to smears of dull brown and copper, mud caked on his boots and pants. He looked like a fright; for that matter, so must she.

No wonder the girl had run.

She exhaled softly, wiggling each finger and toe as though to assure herself that she had no lasting damage, that she had emerged from the previous night's nightmare physically unscathed. There was no doubt in her mind that it had not happened, that it might have all just been a terrible dream brought on by the anxiety of her father and brother going to war and leaving matters in her hands; she was absolutely sure of the previous night's events.

Pity. She might have enjoyed those few moments of incomprehension.

Looking to Nathaniel once more, her companion that had been thrown into the chaos alongside her, she realized that, for all her drama over seeing him again, she had not really _looked _at him, not even when she had first entered the Great Hall. He was different. His hair had darkened in hue in the years he had been away and he had allowed it to grow a few inches longer than it had been before. There was more of a defined angle to his jawline and it suited his face better. He had finally grown into the inheritance of the Howe nose.

He was older. But so had she. He had changed. But again, so had she.

The barn door slammed open, rattling the wall. Squinting against the sun, she made out the outline of a woman of middling years in the doorway, a crudely constructed crossbow braced in front of her, pointed squarely at Eliante's chest. She blinked, her body refusing to comply with any other physical action.

The woman blinked back. "My lady Cousland?"

Beside her, Nathaniel shook himself awake, brushing straw away from his face and hair. His grey eyes locked onto the weapon and then onto the weapon's holder. "I wouldn't do that, were I you," he began, voice softly dangerous, but there was no need.

"You know me, madam?" Eliante asked, struggling to sit up and stop appearing as a total invalid.

"I saw you and your brother ride by last summer," she answered, lowering the crossbow, "and I saw him lead the troops south yesterday, my husband and brother among them. What are you doing so far from Highever, my lady? And…" Her voice trailed off as her hazel eyes followed the bloodstains on Eliante's clothing.

Eliante was quiet. Slowly, methodically, she braced both feet against the ground and rolled her spine up, ignoring her body's complaints as she insisted upon standing. Silent as well, Nathaniel watched her, awaiting her move.

Clasping her hands in front of her, the teyrn's daughter said, "I could claim your allegiance and assistance now as vassals of the Teyrnir to their ruling lord, as I may need to in the future, but for now I only request your charity as a woman who has lost her home and family in an act of traitorous betrayal."

It was only moments before Eliante and Nathaniel found themselves guided out of the barn, into the quaint adjourning house, and seated at a kitchen table with fresh bread and cheese placed before them.

"You poor thing," said the goodwife, whose name had been revealed to be Owena. "It's true? The good teyrn and his wife are dead? And by the hand of the Arl of Amaranthine?"

"It's the truth," answered Nathaniel, tone somewhere between glum and grim as his hands mechanically reduced a bit of crust to crumbs without consuming any of it. Appetite lost, Eliante watched his work, silent.

"How can that be?" said Owena in response, somewhere between wondrous and horrified.

"It 'can be' because it is," he retorted, crumbling what was left of the food between his fingers.

Owena bristled. "And who are you to follow my lady Cousland about and speak for her?"

Nathaniel smiled bitterly at the woman. "I would be the heir to Amaranthine," he replied, "although that's probably up in the air now. I don't expect my father and I to be on speaking terms when I next see him."

"He was visiting with his father," said Eliante quietly before Owena could express anything at his words, "and he got me out of the castle. So I seem to owe him my life."

"We owe each other our lives," he replied shortly, "since I'm beginning to doubt that I was on my father's list of people that were allowed to walk out of Highever Castle alive."

"Will you petition the king?" asked Owena to Eliante. "He must be on your side."

"The king is at Ostagar, as will soon be your husband and brother," answered Eliante, "and we can only decide what to do once we know exactly where we are and what exactly our options are. If my brother and our men passed by here yesterday, I suppose that it is too much to hope that we could catch up to them."

"Not without horses," said Owena, shaking her head, "and there's nary a nag to be found in these parts. Those that could took them south with the army, although I'd warrant that you might find something in town. The closest market is in the outpost of Harper's Ford and that's a half-day's walk."

"I hadn't realized we'd made it so far east," said Nathaniel. "We're almost in Amaranthine land–"

"Which we would have to travel through anyway if we were trying to make it to Denerim," pointed out Eliante. "Although I'm still not so sure that's the best course of action."

"What would you have us do then?" he replied somewhat sharply. "Wander aimlessly and hope that your brother has had a Maker-granted revelation and turned his forces homeward?"

Embarrassed, Owena rose from her seat and brushed crumbs from the front of her dress. "If you'll pardon me, me 'sirs, there are still chores to be done and I can't leave Annalee to do them with her brother gone to war."

Eliante picked at her own bread and cheese as the goodwife disappeared out into the yard. "My family was not exiles," she replied with an edge in her own voice. "Just yesterday, Dairren was telling me all about how some people still think my father should have been king instead of Cailan."

"Something I highly doubt my father ever forgot."

"Do you think it was jealousy then," she asked, "that drove him to do this?"

He did not have an immediate answer. "If it was jealousy," Nathaniel finally replied, "it was jealousy heightened by madness of some kind. My father was an honorable man."

"Or just a pragmatic man, waiting for the perfect timing," she muttered and Nathaniel heard.

"There's something else in that," said Nathaniel, shaking his hand free of crumbs. "What are you really trying to say?"

"Your timing was pretty spot on too," she answered idly, pinching bits of cheese and pressing them down onto pieces of her bread. "I can see how things could work out for you Howes given these present circumstances."

"Explain that."

"Oh, I don't know," she replied, darkly blithe. "The Couslands and their heirs are all dead, save for Fergus and myself, the former of which can be easily offed by an 'accident' on the battlefield. Meanwhile, you just happened to show up at the perfect time to save me from the burning castle and now we're off on our own together. Meanwhile, your father gets somebody –Queen Anora, or her father acting through Cailan –to pardon him for slaughter on the grounds that my parents were conspiring with the Orlesians. I'm young and I'm innocent, so I get to be pardoned too, for my parents' treasonous affiliations. Your father wants to marry me to your brother but in these imaginary circumstances I'd rather marry you, so I do. And then the Howe family keeps Amaranthine and gains Highever. _Voila._ Oh, I forgot," she added, smiling sourly, "that's treasonous."

"I don't know," replied Nathaniel flatly to all of this. "You're presuming that I would want to marry you. Which, right now, I don't."

Eliante raised her eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"For all your talk of your family being popular and how your father should have been king, you don't really have anyone rising to your defense," he pointed out. "Except me."

"No one knows yet that's happened to my family!"

"And until someone tells them –and most of them are down at Ostagar, out of your reach –it's just you and me. You wouldn't have made it to this farmhouse if it had not been for me." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "But off you go accusing me of being an opportunistic bastard in line with a man who killed his best friend and his best friend's family, which is almost as bad as a kinslayer in my opinion."

"He's still your father!"

"And you seem to be content with ignoring that I've lost my father in your burning castle just as much as you have!"

She didn't know how to reply to that. He did not seem to know what to say next, so, angrily, he shoved his chair back from the table, grabbed the bow he had left up against the wall, and pushed the farmhouse's door open, stalking out into the burning sunshine. She stared after him for a few moments until the door sung shut, upon which point she shoved off from the table and followed him outside.

"Nathaniel," she started to say, trying to conjure up an apology of some kind, when a hand wrapped around her wrist and jerked her down behind a pile of hay.

His hand clamped over her mouth, muting whatever sound of surprise she might have made at the sudden interruption. "My father's men," he muttered to her, removing his hand and peering over the top of the haystack. Slowly, making an effort to be quiet, she followed suit.

Following his gaze, she saw one armored man speaking to Owena, seeming to ask for directions, as the second minded a pair of horses. Gently, she punched Nathaniel's shoulder and murmured, "They have horses. And armor. And more weapons than we do and coin as well, I'd wager."

He looked over to her, wrinkling his nose. "You want to play bandit?"

"So what of it?" she replied with a shrug. "They played thieves at my castle. And horses would make the getting to anywhere much easier."

After a moment's consideration, he nodded, tense. "Get the woman out of there," he said, stringing the bow he had brought out with him.

Eliante caught sight of the blonde pigtailed Annalee walking towards them from the direction of barn. Quickly, half-crouched, she raced to the younger girl's side. "There are some men speaking to your mother," she whispered urgently. "Dangerous men and traitors. Can you get her away from them? Make up an excuse?"

The girl nodded, setting down the basket of eggs she had with her. Tucking strands of hair behind her ears, she rounded the haystack and trotted towards her mother and the soldier, yelling something about a hen named Bluebell and blood. Satisfied, Eliante returned to Nathaniel's side with a smug smile as she pulled the daggers from her belt. He scowled at her. "Is sending a pretty girl in their direction really the most brilliant idea you've had?"

"Something tell me that they won't have much time to bask in her beauty," she answered, trying to sound blithe as her hands trembled with the adrenaline of what she was about to do.

Nathaniel looked skeptical, an expression that only deepened as he took in her shaking hands. But rather than doubt her, whether it be out of concern or scorn, he merely shrugged back at her and notched an arrow to his bow. She watched him closely, wondering if this new apathy was borne out of mutual, jaded understanding or anger for the words they had exchanged inside the farmhouse.

In the distance, Annalee tugged on her mother's hand, pulling her back toward the barn. Owena looked to the soldier with an apology in her expression as she held up a finger to explain she would return momentarily. Eliante turned to watch the barn door shut behind mother and daughter as Nathaniel aimed his bow. "Clear," she said quietly and he released the arrow.

The arrow sprouted from the neck of the soldier on horseback; he fell to the ground with a thud and a clink of chainmail. His comrade turned with a shout as the horses pounded their hooves against the dirt road, slightly spooked. Across the yard, Hunter started at the commotion, the hound rising from a nap in the sunlight with a sharp bark.

Eliante threw herself around the corner of the haystack, daggers unsheathed and in hand. Nathaniel followed suit, abandoning his bow for the purloined sword from Highever. Between the two of them, they made short work of the poor surviving sod.

It took Eliante a moment to realize exactly what they had just done. Her combat movements had been quick and unthinking, spurred by the moment. Now that she had time to think, she realized, and turned as green as the grass upon which Nathaniel wiped his blade clean.

Looking up, he noticed. "It's a tad different when you're not the one defending yourself, isn't it?" he commented wryly, sheathing the sword and retrieving his bow.

"And where'd you get all this practice?" she asked tartly, swallowing her breakfast a second time.

"I didn't spend my time in the Free Marches getting drunk and chasing skirts," was the response.

Before she could reply, Owena and Annalee emerged from the barn. Both mother and daughter gasped at the blood on the grass and the bodies in their front yard. "Maker," breathed Owena, staring. "Annalee, don't look. What's happened? Those men were asking for directions; that's all!"

Eliante opened her mouth to answer and found that there were no words. Nathaniel spoke up instead. "My father's men have made a generous donation of their horses and arms to help us take back what belongs to the Couslands," he said grimly. "Now that we have horses, perhaps we will make our way south and try to catch up to Fergus. That failing, there's always Denerim."

"But these men were just saying that the way south has been shut off," exclaimed Owena, "as have the paths to the Bannorn."

"Howe's looking for someone to try and flee the Teyrnir, to warn Fergus or tell the Crown," said Eliante, quietly alarmed, looking to Nathaniel.

"He can't have closed them all off," replied Nathaniel. "He can't have the forces to completely shut down the area. There must be ways out."

"Then we need to know which," said Eliante. "I don't want to take a chance and ride into an army that's looking for me."

"He may not know you've survived. He might just be looking for anyone."

"And I'm still 'anyone,'" she answered in response. "Where did those soldiers come from?"

"They were traveling from Harper's Ford," said Owena.

"Then my father's men must have some kind of base there," said Nathaniel, kneeling at one of the bodies' side to dig through its pockets. "Look: here's a mandate and it's dated from Harper's Ford. They were traveling north, towards Highever, looking for survivors. The asking for directions was probably a pretense."

"We need supplies," Eliante pointed out, "and Harper's Ford is closest. But it's probably not the wisest idea to ride into the outpost on dead men's horses."

"My brother's homestead is along the way to the outpost," said Owena. "He was… hurt by the Orlesians when we were children, and was unable to attend the call to arms. You can leave your horses with him when you go into town; let me give you my mark and he'll believe you."

The goodwife slipped back into her house, presumably in search of parchment and ink as Nathaniel continued to void the corpse's pockets, finding coin and replenishing his quiver of arrows. Annalee looked at Eliante with wide eyes. "Are you going to take back your Teyrnir then?" asked the young girl. "Will there be a war here as well as in the south?"

Eliante felt Nathaniel's eyes on her as well, awaiting the answer to the question with just as much interest. Feeling altogether put on the spot, she answered, "I will take back my family's lands and I will get justice for their deaths. But I hope it doesn't take a war to make things right. My father taught me that mercy can be as powerful as penalty."

Nathaniel snorted, rising to his feet. "Usually people's opinions of what's 'right' are dramatically different, and it does take a war to quibble them out. Besides, justice isn't mercy. Justice is you get what you deserve."

"Justice is you get what you deserve," Eliante repeated, looking at Nathaniel. "I'll be sure and keep that in mind."

* * *

_Something I've learned quite recently that's had a large influence on this story (and I feel it deserves mention) is that one of the reasons Europe on the whole performed so poorly in WW1 and WW2 is that both were within 1-2 generations of another war, the Napoleonic Wars and WW1 respectively, and so many of the soldiers and generals that were sent to war were apprehensive and less than eager to participate. I believe this mindset would be a large factor in the Highever and Amaranthine lands, as well as in much of Ferelden, in the years after the Orlesian Occupation and would also explain why so many nobles and military leaders were quick to allow Loghain to usurp the regency after Cailan's death. They were all sick of war after the battles against the Orlesians. I believe that this history would also have a huge impact on the common folk of Highever; in the canon world, we never hear of any rebellions against Howe. That being said, my Highever will be much less apathetic._

_I'll be addressing the issue of Fergus in coming chapters; I find it ridiculous to be expected to accept that he took the better part of the year+ that the Warden spent gathering allies either (a) healing up after a skirmish with darkspawn (or maybe an encounter with assassins sent by Howe) and/or (b) wandering around the Wilds, looking for a clue. That is unless Flemeth detained him somewhere for her own reasons but I don't like that idea so much. The heir to Highever would be useful and I don't see her letting something useful go to waste._

_Thank you all so much for the reviews and feedback! I find that they're some of the best ways to start up conversations about the DA world (something I don't get to discuss so much in my day to day life) which in turn inspire me to take my stories in new directions, whether the topics be Fereldan politics or –achem- intriguing characters and stories that I must check out._

_Also I can't take complete credit for the "justice is you get what you deserve" line. It came out of a conversation I had with my political science/ sociology professor. She is a wonderful teacher and her class on French history is in part the inspiration for this story. _


	4. The Hanged Man

_Finals were not as dramatic as I feared. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Hanged Man**

The inked mark of the letter W within an O convinced the grumbling farmer of his sister's trust in them, and so Eliante and Nathaniel found themselves a temporary caretaker for their horses. She tried not to look at the mangled leg that dragged behind the man. Leaving Hunter with the strict instructions to stay alert for trouble, the two nobles-on-the-run made their way towards Harper's Ford on foot, trying to seem discreet in clothing newly scrubbed clean of blood as best they could manage.

"I'm not so sure this was a wise decision," muttered Nathaniel as they breached the marketplace, seemingly ill at ease with the fact they were wandering about without so much as a hood for concealment.

"It's only been a few days," she replied quietly in return. "I highly doubt they've put up posters."

"All the same, stay close," he said, grey eyes looking over the throngs of people apprehensively. "My father didn't send his men to this outpost at random."

"Then what was his not-random reason?" she asked, glancing sideways at him. "Do you know for certain or are you hazarding a guess?"

"A guess," he admitted, "but an educated one. How much do you know about this place's history during the occupation?"

"Only that it became Cousland land afterward."

"Well, it was Amaranthine's first," replied Nathaniel, taking hold of her shoulder and pulling her out of the way of a dwarven merchant and his wagon of wares, "but that would be before my great-uncle Tarleton was hung by your grandfather in the square over there."

"He must have supported the Orlesians then," said Eliante as they resumed their path through the outpost, "and no one liked them, not even your father."

"Point is that Harper's Ford was still Howe land before it was Cousland, and for much longer." In an out of place, gentlemanly gesture, he leapt across a particularly large mud puddle before extending a hand to assist her across. "Regardless of how you think this town feels about our families," he concluded, still holding out his hand, "my father wouldn't make a mistake in where he sent his men."

Slightly cautious, she took his hand and allowed him to help her across the miniature lake by the side of the street. "We need provisions," she said, trying to navigate the conversation onto a different subject, "and basic things like clothes. There was no time to…"

She trailed off, eyes losing focus on him for a moment as she remembered the sound of the gates shaking, the cloying smell of smoke and the rich, metallic scent of blood. Nathaniel's hand tightened around hers, recalling her to the present. "I know," he said, eyes intent on her face, and the words did not seem patronizing or tired. "I was there too."

Eliante nodded but he didn't let go of her hand. Moments later, they found themselves in front of a display of various wares minded by a fair-haired merchant.

"Any news from the road?" she asked the man casually, her purse of stolen gold growing gradually lighter as she and Nathaniel made purchases of necessities. If news of the sack of Highever had traveled east, perhaps survivors had also made it this far.

"I haven't been on the road much," the merchant admitted. "I've been keeping shop here in Highever lands mainly, waiting for a Grey Warden to make good on a promise."

"A fool's errand," scoffed Nathaniel in derision, "when you'd expect that the Grey Wardens should be where the darkspawn are: as far away from here as you can get."

"I'm a patient man," he replied with a shrug. "It runs in my family."

"What are you waiting for the wardens to do for you?" asked Eliante, genuinely curious.

"I don't suppose you've heard of a place called Soldier's Peak…"

His answer was cut off by the sound of a clanging bell. All heads turned in the direction of the noise. Eliante looked over her shoulder, forehead creasing as she laid eyes on the scaffolding of a gallows on the other side of the market square. At first sight, it had seemed commonplace: just a shadow of a threat for the pickpockets and bandits that no doubt frequented the outpost. Now, with the bells ringing and the crowd's attention called to it, it seemed much more ominous. She pushed a path closer through the crowd, aware of Nathaniel following close behind.

The crowd's murmurings seemed to creep up on her like a droning, cloying hum as she drew closer to the center of their attention, her face lost amongst the villagers to the eyes of the soldiers that watched over the market square. The wind whipped strands of dark hair free from the twin braids she had adopted as a camouflage of sorts; she shivered. These hard-eyed, smirking men were not her father's soldiers and something was very wrong.

A man was shoved forward to the forefront of the platform, his features completely obscured by a sackcloth bag pulled over his head. In his wake, a soldier tossed a noose into the air, looping the rope up and over the wooden gallows. Another armored figure, his splintmail bearing the insignia marking him as the rank of captain, stepped up beside the prisoner and unrolled a missive, clearing his throat. Behind Eliante, Nathaniel drew in a sharp breath of air.

"In the name of Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and acting Teyrn of Highever," read the captain off of the missive in his hands, "this man is found guilty of treason against the Crown of Ferelden and against the Teyrnir. In addition, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, once reigning Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever, have been found to be guilty of conspiracy and high treason, for which the penalty is death and has already been administered."

The captain nodded at one of his men and the sackcloth bag was whipped off of the condemned man's head. Eliante's teeth sunk into her palm as she covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. She knew that man and his wife; her mother had called both to Highever Castle last autumn to help with the distribution of blankets when they knew it was going to be a bad winter. She stared, at first disbelieving until anger began to bubble up in her veins as the captain continued:

"Be well advised that any person found to be harboring conspirators or sympathies towards such will be subjected to the same penalty, by the order of Arl Rendon–"

His words were cut short as the missive, which he had lifted to show the crowd the Arl's signature, disappeared from his grip and mysteriously reappeared against the Chantry wall behind him, held fast by an arrow lodged through the document's center.

Eliante did not lower the bow she had snatched from Nathaniel's back but instead notched the second of the arrows she had plucked from his quiver. "Should I save you all the trouble and turn myself in now?" she asked, unwavering, trying to be unwavering, aware of the weight of all the eyes fixed upon her. "I'm the one you're looking for, no?"

"Eliante…" began Nathaniel in warning but she would have none of it. She shoved her way through the stunned crowd, climbing onto an empty open cart so that the people, her father's people, _her _people, could see her.

"My name is Eliante Cousland," she shouted out, "and my family was _not _traitors! This man's master would have you buy his false coin for his own profit. Arl Howe slaughtered my family, our loyal guards, our servants–"

"Like the Orlesians' lapdogs they were!" jeered the captain. "She calls my master's coin false while she feasts on Orlesian gold."

"Was my nephew, a boy of six, guilty of high treason?" she shot back. "Was my old nursemaid? They both now lie dead along with my father and mother, my brother's wife, my tutor, our priest–"

"As befits those that throw their lot in with Ferelden's enemies!"

"Did any of you know Eleanor Cousland as enemy?" she asked the crowd in the marketplace, who had begun to shift and mutter amongst themselves. "Did any of you know my father Teyrn Bryce Cousland as something other than a fair and just liege lord, one that listened to your needs and heeded your worries? He fought to throw off the Orlesian yoke in his youth and nearly died at the battle of White River; it is _madness _to think that he would invite their influence back again!"

Her eyes darted back and forth between faces in the crowd; the condemned man at the gallows was staring at her as though she was some kind of revelation. She looked to Nathaniel: his handsome face was pale with anxiety and apprehension, a dagger palmed in his hand. In a strange, dizzy moment, she remembered for the first time since he had left for the Free Marches that she _did _find him handsome.

The crowd stared back at her but it was as though she was indeed some sort of apparition, incorporeal, meaningless, and powerless in the great scheme of things. She opened her mouth to speak again as her verbal opponent had not contested her further, to urge her audience to rebellion, to revolt, to _something_, but in those long moments, there was no dramatic movements. Disappointment began to brew in the corners of her mind, followed by fear: a realization that she had just taken great risk with no payoff.

These small, terrifying eternities were interrupted by a shout across the market square. Someone's hand lashed out and wrapped around her ankle, yanking her downwards; she cried out in surprise, but it turned out to be an act of mercy. She hit the wooden bed of the cart hard, the wheels creaking and the boards groaning beneath her, a stabbing pain exploding in her shoulder halfway to the floor.

With great effort, she lifted her neck up and saw the arrow protruding from her flesh, the tip having sliced through the material of her jerkin. She reached up a hand to the place of impact; her fingers came away sticky with blood. There was a noise; she looked up to see that someone, some random, had leapt up onto the cart to see what had become of her: their face was blurry in her eyes. He let out a shout, she thought she saw Nathaniel climb up beside him –he really was handsome; it was no wonder that things had happened between them as they had, all those years ago –and then she heard the crowd erupt just before she went spinning into blackness.

* * *

_Nan was kneading dough between in her hands, miniature clouds of flour wafting up from the kitchen table. Sitting on a stool at the table's edge, Eliante swirled her thumb in a bit of custard filling and licked her fingers clean, watching. The kitchen was warm and full of the smells of baking break and stewing meat and it was comfortable in its familiarity. She was content._

"_You haven't forgotten the story of Harharku now that you're all grown up, have you, Birdy?" Nan was asking her, dough rising up between her wrinkled fingers._

"_How could I forget?" Eliante answered. "I'll wager it was the first story you ever told me and, given the number of times you retell it, the only one you know more than passing well."_

"_The truth that it teaches won't fade away any time soon," she replied. "How you treat the least will be remembered by the greatest and you would do well to keep the lesson close."_

"_As watchman to my heart and mind. But tell me another story. There are other truths."_

"_With some lies mixed in. Or is it the other way around?" Something about Nan changed as she posed the question, only for a brief moment: the bones in her face became sharper, her eyes flashed golden. Eliante blinked and Nan returned to herself, still working away at the dough. "I can never decide," she mused softly. "So much is uncertain."_

"_Then tell me a story and I'll make up my own mind," replied Eliante, the custard in her mouth turning bitter and medicinal, like the taste of healing herbs. She tried not to gag._

_Nan hummed softly to herself as she folded the dough into a cake tin. "After our fathers' fathers came down from the mountains, we settled down and cultivated the land. Each man was granted his own plot for himself and his family, but for some that was not enough. One farmer expanded outside of his allotted territory and razed the woodlands for fresh planting, thus displacing a warren of rabbits…"_

"_Rabbits," repeated Eliante. "Why is it always animals in your stories?"_

"_Because people are too wound up on their own image and too complex to properly convey simple truths," was the answer. "Now hush and listen. Some years later, the youngest of the warren grew up and looked over the fence at what had once been his father's home, his father that had been killed and baked into a pie by the farmer's wife many years ago. Remembering, he was filled with rage and desire for retribution. He wanted to find vengeance even when it was clear he stood little chance against the farmer. _

"_But a crack of thunder interrupted his planning. He looked in the opposing direction and saw a great storm brewing over the mountains, moving fast toward the valley. He realized that the storm would destroy everything, no matter to whom it superficially belonged. He had a choice: he could either throw himself and perhaps his life away against an overwhelming enemy or wait and fortify against the storm."_

_Eliante held up a hand, stopping her. "I'm not a rabbit," she said, blue-grey eyes flashing, "and there are others better equipped to fortify against this 'storm' in the south."_

"_Perhaps the threat is greater than you or any of them realize," was the tart reply, "but you aren't doing so well in your own little campaign right now, are you?"_

"Careful," _she heard someone say, their voice unfamiliar, male, and strangely loud in the world of the kitchen._ "I released the spell. She could wake up any minute now."

_Someone's fingers were turning her hand over, seeming to check the pulse. She glanced down at her wrist, confused, looking for the phantom hand that she felt against her flesh. She blinked and Nan's visage wavered and flickered before her eyes, the kitchen itself seeming to tilt. She blinked once more and the world came spinning back._

The hand was gone from her wrist; she could hazily make out a figure in a tan coat turning away from her and saying cheerfully, "See? I told you nobody here would be waking up dead."

"Her, maybe not," she heard Nathaniel say, out of her sightlines but close all the same, "but what about the people in the marketplace?"

"A pretty dramatic scene wasn't it?" said a third man, vaguely familiar. "Had quite a bit of her old man in her, from what I could tell, calling the people to arms like she did to save that poor sod's life. They're all talking about how brave she is, when the soldiers aren't listening."

"Brave and beautiful," said the first voice, the one that had taken her pulse, "a striking combination for a leader."

"A striking combination for a martyr," Nathaniel retorted. "The Rebel Queen is less well-known for her attributes than she is for her tragic death."

"Oh, lighten up. Besides, I think she's awake now."

"I'll check on the horses," said the third voice and Eliante heard a door close behind him.

She struggled to sit up against the pillows, the movement catching Nathaniel's attention. He crossed the small room in a few, quick strides, saying, "What the hell were you thinking back there?"

"Well, I thought it was brave," offered the other man. Now that he had turned back toward her, she could see that he was fair-haired, tall, and amber-eyed with a long nose, an earring set in one earlobe. Catching her looking, he winked at her.

Nathaniel scowled. "Brave and stupid."

"What was I supposed to do?" she demanded, scowling back at him. "Was I supposed to just stand there and let that man hang and listen to the denouncement of my family?"

"I thought it was inspiring."

"You're not helping."

"Who are you?" Eliante asked the unknown man, all too aware that there should have been a hole in her shoulder where there was only a bandage and dull pain.

He beamed at her. "You may call me Anders, dear lady, and might I express how happy I am that that arrow missed its intended mark? There are so, so, so, _so_ few pairs of perfect–"

"That's enough, mage," growled Nathaniel as Eliante's nose burned scarlet.

Anders's eyebrows rose skyward. "Oh," he said, making that one syllable count for words and words. "I'll just leave you two alone then." With another charming smile, he took his exit.

"Anders is an apostate," Nathaniel told her as soon as the mage had taken his leave, sinking into the rickety chair at her bedside.

"Convenient," Eliante commented, deliberately noncommittal as she adjusted her position in the shallow cot.

"Dangerous," he corrected. "Any sympathy you've managed to garner after that little display will be immediately eroded the moment anyone finds out that you're collaborating with illegal mages."

"Remind me how _I_'m the one collaborating with apostates," she replied, irritated, "when I'm the one that blacked out after being shot and woke up to you chatting with an unnamed healer and someone else."

"Levi Dryden. He's the merchant we purchased most of our supplies from before the incident."

"You didn't answer my question."

He smiled slightly. "Prove it. Your word against mine."

"Levity at a time like this?"

"How else are we supposed to deal with what's happening around us?"

She sighed quietly. "So how did we end up in the company of these gentlemen?"

"You owe them your life," he replied with a shrug, "as do I. I'm not sure who shot you but when you went down, the crowd went mad. My father's men couldn't contain them all; it was hard to tell who was on which side to be honest. Levi pulled his wagon up alongside the cart you had been standing on and we spirited you away. I'm not sure what happened in the outpost after we left."

"And the man who was to be hung?"

"I don't know what happened to him. Did you know him?"

"My mother did," she answered softly. "She knew both he and his wife. They were honorable people." In the silence that followed, she plucked up the corner of the blanket and lifted the bandage, inspecting the pink, puckered line of her wound. "How did we meet Anders?"

"Contact of Levi's. It seems he's been on the run from the Templars for a while and has been healing to put bread on the table and keep people's mouths shut." Nathaniel grimaced. "I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"It's another wild card in the mix."

"And the game was playing out so perfectly before he showed up?"

"We should have ridden straight to Denerim, or somewhere west, and damned the consequences of whom we might have run into. It would have been better than you making a scene and getting shot."

She shrugged with some effort. "You don't know what would have happened."

"Do you even know how long you were out?" Nathaniel leaned forward, looking intently at her, and she finally took notice of his unkempt hair, the stubble on his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. "Of course you don't. A day and a half. You were gone for a day and a half. I don't know how healing really works; this Dryden fellow brings us to this apostate and I have no idea what's going on anymore and you're not waking up."

"I'm fine," she said, a little awkward, unsure of how to respond. She reached out and covered his hand against the sheet with her own. "I woke up."

"You're fine now," he retorted, pulling away, standing up, and stalking out of the small room.

Eliante stared after him for a few moments before she too got to her feet. Realizing quickly that she was clad in only her smallclothes, she glanced around before spotting the leather saddlebags in the corner of the room, crossing the room and nudging them open with her feet to reveal the first of the items they had purchased from Levi Dryden.

Sometime later, she pushed open the door into the main room, dressed down to her boots in a dark blue tunic over a billowing white shirt and comfortable leather breeches, her dark hair braided back from her face and pinned to nestle against the nape of her neck. Levi, Anders, and Nathaniel turned to note her entrance, the former two sitting at the roughly hewn table at the center of the room, the latter leaning against the extinguished fireplace.

"Well, look at you," said Anders by way of greeting. "Who would guess that not two days ago you were bleeding out in a cart in the market square?"

"I would," muttered Nathaniel and Anders heard.

"Why?"

"Because I saw it happen. No use pretending otherwise."

"I just wanted to thank you," Eliante interposed quickly, "all of you. For coming to my aid in the marketplace. It was a foolish thing I did and I'm just lucky that I didn't pay a heavier–"

"Foolish or not, you seem to have caused quite a stir," said Levi. "Half of the people of Harper's Ford are either detained by Arl Howe's men or gone to ground and the soldiers that aren't keeping the peace are scouring the countryside, looking for you. With no luck, I might add."

"And you have my eternal gratitude for it," she replied, "but I can't stay here now. It puts you all at risk."

"You can stay at least for the night," Anders offered with a shrug. "It's not like I'm expecting house guests and I'm sure that if you put up a show like the one in the market, you'll sway any errant Templars that show up to your cause."

"What will you do afterward?" Levi asked.

Nathaniel, in his corner, was silent. She looked at him and he raised his gaze to meet hers evenly. To him, she said, "I want to start a rebellion."

"That's a laugh," he said bluntly. "With what coin?"

"You were the one that was telling me not three nights ago to go to Denerim and find someone who would sympathize with me. Why can't I do the same with another noble house that's closer to home?"

"The closest noble house would be mine and you know you're not getting help there. Besides, I meant for you to go to Denerim to find shelter and safety and the law, not raise the north," Nathaniel retorted. "You won't find anyone willing to pay you to wage civil war while there's a Blight at hand."

"_Potential_ Blight."

"Are you willing to take that risk?"

"If I might make a suggestion," interjected Anders quickly, "if it's coin you're after, there is a lovely, untouched fortress, literally top full of unclaimed riches, that is hardly a few days' traveling west from here with your horses and the wagon."

"And if it is such prime pickings, why does it remain untouched?" Nathaniel asked ironically without looking away from Eliante.

"That would be because no one knows how to navigate through the tunnels to get to it…"

"Well, that does us all a lot of good."

"Except," Anders continued, ignoring Nathaniel, "except for Levi," he finished, getting up and clapping the man in question on the back.

Levi coughed. "I was waiting for Duncan."

"And that could mean waiting forever," said Anders. "Meanwhile, here are two very lovely people with a good cause on their hands, as well as myself, that are willing to help you right this moment, isn't that right, my lady Cousland?"

"I don't see any better plans on the table," replied Eliante with a shrug, watching Nathaniel. "And I'm going to need coin in order to raise the north, as you so dramatically put it."

Anders grinned triumphantly. Nathaniel swore loudly.

* * *

_We know that Anders had escaped from the Circle Tower sometime before Uldred's uprising after Ostagar. Presumably, the Templars in Awakenings found him somewhere in proximity to Amaranthine, as they stopped by Vigil's Keep with him during the trip back to the Tower. Therefore, I don't think it's too far off to presume that he's floating around somewhere between Lake Calenhad and Amaranthine during the events of DA:O proper._

_Levi Dryden could similarly be presumed to be loitering somewhere in the Highever region as well, since Soldier's Peak is in the northern parts of Ferelden and he knows that Duncan is in the south due to the darkspawn. It makes sense for him to be hanging around Highever in my opinion, waiting for Duncan to finish up at Ostagar and then come home and make good on his promise. Levi seems to know lots of people, as he finds the Warden pretty fast in game, so I created the happy accident that he knows Anders, the friendly neighborhood apostate healer._

_Also, I adopted the children's story of Peter Rabbit for my little dream sequence. While it was published in approx. 1902, I take liberties!_

_Fergus next chapter! Yay Fergus!_

_Thank you so much for the reviews and the favs/follows. I really, really appreciate those who take the time to leave feedback, positive or constructive alike. You lovely souls are the best. :)_


	5. The Darkspawn Players

**Chapter Five: The Darkspawn Players**

_From the desk of Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and acting Teyrn of Highever:_

_I need someone taken care of and I need it done quickly and quietly. Needless to say: be discreet. I cannot have this come out into the open. You will find the details attached. Get it done to the letter._

_-RH_

* * *

The plan was that the scouting party would return to the main camp at Ostagar by sundown on the fifth day. As the days passed and the number of darkspawn they encountered as they delved deeper into the Kocari Wilds increased, Fergus Cousland found that objective to be increasingly unrealistically optimistic.

The landmark of the Tower of Ishal had slowly disappeared behind leafless trees and decaying ruins, fading into the mist. The muted sounds of the forest surrounded them: an ever present hum of life and energy. Yet for the first time, even surrounded by his scouting party, Fergus Cousland felt alone, alone and yet watched: a vulnerable combination.

He did not enjoy feeling vulnerable.

"Eyes sharp," he said quietly to the man-at-arms at his right, Samuel. "I don't want any straggling survivors from that last band flanking us."

"Aye," Samuel agreed. "Forest's gone quiet like it gets back home when it knows there's a hunter in its midst."

"Extra sharp then. This isn't home."

"Animals are animals."

"And darkspawn are something else entirely," Fergus countered. "We've run into enough of the fiends to know that they aren't like any Maker-made creatures in Thedas."

"And seen the color of their blood for our trouble," replied Samuel with a satisfied tone. "But as you say, my lord. Eyes extra sharp."

Fergus nodded and the band of five men pressed on, pushing a path through the overgrown Chasind marked pathways. A sapling snapped backwards in their wake, catching Fergus across the backs of his knees; he winced at the sound of the young wood against the light splintmail of his greaves.

It was too cold in the south for his liking, and too wild. He had always thought himself to be a man that favored the outdoors, but in the past week since his arrival at Ostagar he had soon realized that there was a vast difference between hunting and hiking in his home's forests and scouting for enemy movement in the bitterly cold and unforgiving Wilds.

He missed eating a meal that did not taste as though it had been cooked and reheated seven times over. He missed wearing the fine doublet and trousers he had so often complained of wearing at formal receptions in Denerim. He missed correcting the grip of a wooden sword in his son's hand, not the hilt of its real counterpart in a green soldier. He missed sleeping in a comfortable bed warmed by his wife at his side, of leaning in and murmuring something in her ear, sometimes something sweet, sometimes something for which "sweet" was not the appropriate descriptive word, and watching her face color all the same.

The last words he and Oriana had exchanged before his departure had not been so kind. With the frost crunching beneath his boots, he would give anything to take them back. Even now with the raven's call overhead, he could hear her voice in his mind's ears and he winced.

"Something wrong, milord?" asked Samuel, noticing.

"Weather's terrible," he lied –not _quite _a lie; they might as well be atop some peak in the Frostbacks –with a shrug, "bitter cold and it's barely August. We had better be back before Harvestmere or you'll have to have me carted back home as a block of ice and my family will have to chip away at me with little picks."

"The king could have you drawn by wagon to Denerim," Samuel rejoined, slicing forward with a blade to clear the path of an invading vine. "I hear the queen rather likes those fancy centerpieces of ice that the mages magic into keeping frozen."

"I'm sure she likes the _idea _of them," Fergus replied distractedly. Something about this section of the wilds did not _feel _right. "There hasn't been a court mage in ages and if the king and Teyrn Loghain could barely get the Templars to release a half-dozen mages into the king's service to fight darkspawn, I highly doubt the master of horse in Denerim could argue for mages to perform something so trivial."

"I heard a rumor that the warden-commander went personally to the Circle of Magic to try his luck with the knight-commander," said Samuel. "D'you think he's got a better shot than the king or–"

Fergus held up a hand, palm uncurled and Samuel stopped mid-phrase. The scouting party stopped in its tracks, all five men silent, stock-still, listening. The wilds themselves seemed as motionless as them, life hovering in suspension.

There was a crackle of twigs and leaves underfoot from somewhere behind them. Fergus swung around, hand on the hilt of his blade as he pulled the heavy shield from his back, the Cousland grey-blue eyes narrowed at the flash of movement between the whispering trees. With a jerk of his head, he summoned his men to follow him into the brush.

A figure cut through the trees just within their sightlines, stumbling ungainly over a pathway of stepping stones and up a slope on the other side of the shallow river. Fergus's eyes narrowed. "Genlock," he said, "and I'll wager he has friends."

Behind him, a soldier cursed. "Blighter," he quietly fumed. "Mikael, I _told _you that some of them in that last skirmish slipped by; didn't I tell you–"

"Aye, you told me," Mikael growled, twisting strands of his black beard shot through with grey with one hand, bracing a greatsword against his shoulder with the other, "along with the rest of us poor sods and the frogs. You would have told the darkspawn themselves if they hadn't tried to gut your sorry ass."

"Quiet," Fergus commanded and his men obeyed. "It doesn't look like he's got fellow blighters after all; I think he's trying to hide and lick his wounds." The men chuckled. Fergus turned to Samuel and the sliver of a grin appeared on his face. "You were all nostalgic for hunting just a moment ago. Shall we try for some bigger game before we start the return trip?"

The men laughed again, trying to conceal their uneasiness behind bravado, and, comradely, Mikael slapped Samuel's shoulder. Grinning, Fergus unsheathed his blade. "I promised my son before I left that I'd bring him back a sword," he said. "A 'Sward of Truthiness' is the technical term actually. Shall we go bloody it up for him?"

"Aye!" the men chorused in affirmation, and Fergus led the way across the stepping stones and up the slope with a roar that the rest of his party echoed, leading the charge towards death in the misty Wilds.

The path they had watched the genlock take led to a clearing: an empty clearing. Fergus stopped his charge in the center and his men stood beside him, looking around, waiting but they knew not what for. There were others that knew and they emerged from between the trees, silent, smirking, daggers palmed. Fergus glanced amongst the strangers, looking from face to face, and realized that they were surrounded and outnumbered two to one but not by darkspawn.

There were men and there were elves, their faces and hair darkened by dirt and dyes, clothes stained by the black taint of darkspawn blood. There was a dwarf that emerged from behind an ancient oak, pulling a tattered jerkin and rusted chainmail from his head and shoulders that he must have purloined from some darkspawn: the genlock they had chased.

"Assassins," Fergus breathed as, beside him, the dual axes in Samuel's hands began to shake. "Come for me?"

"Who else?" drawled the man directly before him with a sly grin, twirling twin daggers in his grip. There was something of Oriana's voice in his accent and Fergus found inexplicably clinging to that small comfort of memory. "Our client sends his regards," he continued, pale green eyes ringed in the shadows of dark paint, "and he asks that you send them on in turn to your esteemed parents, your pretty whore of a wife, and your clever whelp, as you'll be seeing them all again quite soon."

And, leaving Fergus little time to compute and no time to respond, the assassins in darkspawn guise were upon them.

* * *

_The job is done as you requested. The Antivan Crows send their regards and remind you to send the rest of the agreed upon payment. Should you find you have need of our services in the future, you know how to contact us._

… … …

_My lord Howe,_

_Some of the men are not pleased with your actions. They will incite others against you. For the plan to succeed, our forces must be united. If word gets out, if even one of them informs the Crown, it will be your head on a plate. I say this with all due respect, ser. _

_Your captain, _

_Lowan _

* * *

Back to camp before sundown on the fifth day and home in time to bring Oriana and Oren to Denerim for Satinalia; that was a laugh.

Samuel, loyal, faithful, decent man, lay dead on the ground beside him, eyes wide and glassy, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Mikael was a little ways off in a puddle of blood; the cruel man with the disturbing green eyes had oh so cleverly rigged the dance of death to conclude with the tall, bearded man being run through with his own blade. And Fergus had been left, only mostly dead, with the enigmatic message to "think on his family's sins."

It hardly seemed to matter that he was still breathing. Everyone involved seemed rather certain, assassins and himself included, that he was going to die out here.

_Think on your family's sins._

He thought of Oriana. He thought of her as he would often see her as he returned from morning swordplay practice, of her sitting at her vanity, performing her morning routine, slender fingers twisting hair that had never made up its mind between brown and blonde into braids and twists. He thought of the smell of her hair, the citrus and cloves she had brought with her in little gauze pouches from Antiva. He remembered how her scent lingered in places she frequented, clinging to the pillows of their bed, wafting through the open washroom doorway as she bathed. He remembered the warmth of her presence in bed beside him, the simple comfort of the knowledge she was there.

_Think on your family's sins._

What sins did a boy of six have to atone for? In his mind's eye, Fergus saw his son as he had last laid eyes on him: a wooden sword calling from his lap as Oren leapt to his feet at the promise of a real blade of his own. What had he promised Oren exactly? "You'll get to see a sword up close real soon, I promise."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. He would hit himself in the head for it, if he could and if he wasn't already in so much blasted pain.

_Think on your family's sins._

What had become of his family? And what had they done, _any_ of them done, to deserve whatever fate had befallen the last members of the Cousland line?

* * *

_Lowan,_

_We cannot afford an insurrection. Put any troublemakers in chains. Do whatever it takes to weed them out. __Whatever it takes, Lowan.__ Do not fail me._

_**Where is she?**_

_-RH_

* * *

He had not permitted himself to hope for rescue but, even in the delusions he was unable to prevent, Fergus had never thought for a moment that his would-be saviors would trip over him. Literally.

The elder Cousland heir had dragged himself down the slope inch by inch over the course of a day and the better part of a night until he lay at the edge of the stream, just beside the stepping stone path. He had drunk greedily from the creek's flow before, exhausted, he collapsed against the bank, moist dirt and moss a soft cushion against his cheek. He dozed fitfully, feverishly, his inflamed wounds causing a hot flush to spread across his face, and so did not hear the three sets of footsteps approaching, two soft, one heavy and clanking of chainmail.

"Damn it!" exclaimed the one in armor just after he tripped over Fergus's motionless legs, half-concealed by the reeds and tall grasses surrounding the creek. "I swear, every rock and stone in this place has it in for me."

"Look again," said another voice –female, Fergus dimly registered –her tone a combination of bored and amused. "If you two were vultures, I believe you've stumbled upon a carcass."

"Funny. Very funny."

"Your friend told me to speak my mind. If you prefer however, I can always renew my previous offer again and play your silent guide."

"Is he a carcass as you said or is he something worth saving?" Another voice, male, spoke up: his voice quieter than his companions but with an air of authority. In a different scenario, Fergus might have respected that quality in the man's speech and voiced such an opinion, but under these circumstances his own voice was gone, lost somewhere in a throat mangled by dehydration and fatigue.

"I cannot say one way or another," the woman declared dismissively. "I am no healer and I know him not. I have no means of knowing whether he would be of use to us."

"Wow," said the first man, a clank of metal sounding as he shifted from one foot to the other and folded his arms. "There's the soul of empathy for you. Right there. Incarnate."

"I was asked my opinion. I gave it. What more do you want?"

Part of Fergus wished that they would just go away, or that they had never come in the first place. That would make things easier; that would make dying easier. His body could rot away along with Samuel's and Mikael's and the others' and his soul could… go somewhere else. Yes, somewhere where he would find his wife and apologize for his harsh words, bury his face in the softness of her neck and inhale deeply. Somewhere, some other world where he could watch his son grow up and become a man; the joys that had seemingly been stolen from him by an unknown enemy.

There was a crinkle of cloth as one of the three knelt down in the mud close to his ear. Eyes still screwed shut against the sun's glare, Fergus listened as a pack was set down beside his injured side. There was another sound of movement and he felt the pressure of a hand against his shoulder, rolling him gently over onto his back. He recoiled at the touch; not out of pain, but because every fiber of his being screamed to get away from the unknown person; there was something _wrong_ about them, whoever they were.

However, he found that he really was not in much of a position to make his objections known. His eyelids fell shut once more against the blinding daylight, but not before he caught a glimpse of his rescuers' faces. They numbered three, as he had deduced from their voices: a woman and two men. Against the harsh glare of the sun, he thought that one of them bore likeness to the king he had left behind at camp, but that was unlikely. Equally remarkable was the amount of pale, flawless skin that the woman left exposed from the waist up. If she lacked for empathy as her companion claimed, she certainly compensated for it with confidence.

He got a better glimpse at the second man than he did the king's doppelganger: a man, human, of slightly above middling height from what he could estimate, gray-green eyes set into a sharply boned and slightly gaunt face framed by deep brown hair shot through with silver despite his seemingly juvenile age. His hands, finely boned like those of a musician, peeled away the blood-encrusted leather beneath the chainmail that concealed his wound; flakes of dull red-brown scattered and fell away from the material.

"Please tell me we aren't going to waste our time on every injured creature we stumble upon."

"That's not for you to decide," replied the doppelganger, "and thank Andraste for it."

"And what shall be next on the esteemed and illustrious Grey Wardens' itinerary? Rescuing kittens from trees?"

Really, a beautiful woman could be forgiven practically anything, especially if she had few qualms on how many finger-lengths of bare flesh she exposed from the chin down. The stories his father had told him of the Orlesian court dimmed in comparison to this shrill-voiced evidence on the matter.

At least the sense of total wrongness at the dark-haired man's touch had seemed to fade in the moments since initial contact. Fergus could not put his finger on what exactly had inspired his initial recoiling, but there must have been a reason for it. It was strange that the man's companions did not seem to notice or mind. Perhaps it was his imagination, or a hyper-sensitivity. The unknown man in the gray robes did bear some semblance to the assassin that had called Oriana a whore before running Samuel through with a blade.

"Wait," said the man in the armor, "I _do _know him. That's the heir to Highever; I _knew _he looked familiar from somewhere."

"And is this Highever something of use to us?"

"Why is it always whether something is 'of use' with you?"

The man at his side murmured something that sounded vaguely arcane to Fergus's ears and a wave of numbness washed over his prone form, dissolving the pain and replacing it with a vague lack of all sensation. He wasn't sure if he preferred it to the pain; he had gotten used to the dull agony and at least it had meant he was feeling _something_.

The mage –it was now quite clear that the man was a mage –rose and dusted off the front of his robes. "Pitch camp here for the night," he commanded with that same quiet authority.

"With so many hours of daylight still left?" A scowl was sounded in the woman's tone. "Are you inviting the darkspawn to catch up to us so that we may all have tea?"

"The darkspawn will not catch up to us," said the mage in response. "Your mother said that the bulk of the horde was at Ostagar still, still southeast of us. Would she deliberately misinform us?"

There was a pause. "No," was the response finally given. "Not with the gravity of the task set out before you."

"Don't remind me," groaned the Cailan-lookalike, the plea accompanied by a thump as he presumably dropped his burdens to the ground.

* * *

_My lord,_

_We have scoured Harper's Ford from top to bottom and put down the insurrectionists. The Cousland girl is not to be found among them. We have blocked the roads south to Denerim and are searching the surrounding countryside and any wagons that pass through, but she might as well have vanished into thin air._

_Your eldest son is not to be found either, ser. Reports placed him at the riot in the outpost but his whereabouts are otherwise unconfirmed._

_As always, your most dedicated captain,_

_Lowan_

* * *

He heard the fire crackling and felt the bedroll beneath him before he opened his eyes. For a blessed moment, Fergus believed that it was still the fourth night of the scouting mission, that he had awoken just in time to relieve Mikael for his portion of the night's watch.

This illusion was quickly shattered when Fergus opened his eyes and locked eyes with an amber-eyed raven. The creature gave an unsettlingly un-animal-like shrug of its wings and took off, gliding behind a partitioned-off section of camp backlit by a second fire. The shadow of the bird morphed into the silhouette of a woman.

Fergus blinked. None of his men had those curves or that ability. He would have noticed, on both accounts. In fact, before this moment, he had not known that skill of bending shape existed outside of the old tales.

The woman emerged from behind the hanging cloth; her eyes caught hold of his and her slender neck extended ever so slightly at the attention of him looking. "Awake, I see," she observed haughtily. "The Grey Wardens will be so relieved that this was not a waste of their time after all."

Put on edge by her manner and her demonstrated abilities, Fergus tried to struggle into a sitting position: anything less prone and therefore putting him at the mercy of another. "That doesn't make any sense," he said in a rasp of a voice. "The Grey Wardens are supposed to be at Ostagar along with the rest of the king's army. What are these two running about rogue?"

"So you don't know," said the woman after a moment's pause. "I suppose it was too much to hope that you were an educated deserter."

"Pigs would fly sooner than I desert," Fergus scoffed. "A Cousland does his duty."

"I see," she said, heaving a great sigh. "Then you wouldn't take too kindly to hear that what remains of your king's army is composed of those who quit the field. And is no longer led by the king, I might add."

"That's ridiculous. Cailan would never cede command; he was determined –a foolish notion or not –that he would head Ferelden's armies in deed as well as name."

"Heading an army is a rather unfeasible task when one has lost his head, wouldn't you think?"

The moment that followed was one where Fergus did not know what to say. Finally, he replied, "You're having too much fun telling me this."

A crease folded between the woman's eyes. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

"It can't be true," Fergus declared, finally ceasing the battle to sit up straight and instead settling for lying flat in a dignified manner.

She sniffed. "Well, you can ask Mordred yourself. I've certainly done my fair share of spreading word and dealing with the unpleasant consequences these past few days. 'Tis only fair that someone else takes up their share of the responsibility."

"You call doom-saying a responsibility. And who is this 'Mordred'? That can't be his real name; that's just ridiculous."

"That seems to be your word of the evening," the woman observed disdainfully, "but no matter how many times you say it, it does not change the reality of the situation at hand. Your king is dead. The better part of your army's reserves quit the field. Mordred is the name he will give you, whether it is his birth name or otherwise. I would think you should be grateful to him rather than mocking; he is the one who saved your life after all."

The point was taken. "Then I will call him by whatever name he wishes to be called by," Fergus relented, rolling his eyes. "And by that token, what would you have me call you?"

The woman's golden eyes glittered in the twilight. "You may call me Morrigan."

"Morrigan," he repeated before he took a deep breath, asking, "Do you know which lords made it out alive from Ostagar–"

"Loghain."

There was a clatter as Fergus rotated his neck to see that the king's doppelganger had appeared, a pile of firewood dumped at his feet, accompanied by the mage Fergus could only guess was the "Mordred" Morrigan had named. He struggled to sit up again at their arrival, once again failing miserably at the flash of splintering pain across his midsection at the attempt.

"Loghain got away just fine," the lookalike continued, his tone embittered by the knowledge. "I wouldn't give much hope to anyone who wasn't his best buddy. Although you would think he'd be pretty close with his son-in-law."

"Teyrn Loghain quit the field," Fergus processed, disbelieving. "That can't be. He would never do such a thing, not with Cailan on the ground, not without good reason for it."

"Well, he did," he replied glumly, nudging a bit of wood into the flames with the toe of his foot.

"And who are you to accuse the teyrn of regicide?" Fergus questioned with a glare, finally making it into a seated position, ignoring the persistent throb of pain.

"One of the two living people who had the best view in Thedas to watch it happen," was the response.

"That's not a name."

"Alistair. I'm a Grey Warden who is… who was under Duncan's command."

Alistair. That sounded vaguely familiar. Had he heard his father mention to his mother that Maric had had a bastard by such a name? Little matter now… or all the matter in Ferelden, depending.

"And I'm Mordred Amell," spoke up the mage. Out of the corner of his eye, Fergus saw Morrigan smirk at him. "I'm also a Grey Warden, although not necessarily by choice," he added under his breath.

"Fergus Cousland," he replied with a nod, "and can one of you Grey Wardens tell me where my father went after Ostagar?"

There was silence, save for the crackle of the fire. Fergus tried again. "He would have ridden in with Arl Howe and the troops from Amaranthine. Did either of you mark their arrival?"

The quiet fell again, until Mordred spoke up, cautious. "From what I heard at the war meeting before the battle," he began, "Arl Howe's men never arrived at the camp. It seemed to be a matter of some confusion around the table."

"Never arrived," Fergus repeated. "But his men were only delayed, nothing serious. They were to leave only the night after me and mine. This makes no sense; why would they–"

_Think on your family's sins._

"No," he said, more to himself than to them. "No. Reserving judgment, reserving judgment, reserving judgment…"

"You weren't attacked by darkspawn."

The statement came out of the blue and was spoken with surprising certainty. Fergus looked up in surprise at the speaker and his blue-gray Cousland eyes met Mordred's gray. The mage's gaze was even. "Were you?" Mordred said and did not wait for an answer before continuing. "You were attacked by men painted up to appear as darkspawn; we found one of their bodies."

"'Twas a strange sight to behold indeed," intoned Morrigan as she watched and listened.

Fergus stared down Mordred. "Reserving judgment," he repeated. "When do we pack up camp?"

"Dawn," said the slighter man with a shrug, "if you're up for it."

"I'm up for it," said Fergus, his voice hard. "The sooner we get out of these Maker-forsaken Wilds, the better."

* * *

_Lowan,_

_Find her. Discredit her. Do __**something**__. _

_As for Nathaniel, I trust he knows his place._

_-RH_

* * *

_We know Arl Howe employed the Antivan Crows once for the Warden and company; there's no reason he wouldn't use them for other significant targets. _

_Arl Howe's correspondences were originally taken from Codex entries from DA:O Awakening and then elaborated upon and expanded._

_Back to Eliante and her merry band of misfits next chapter. Updates are no longer just on Thursdays but they will be at least once a week, a new chapter posted by each Thursday. Thank you all so much for your reviews and feedback. It really is one of the best feelings for a writer, knowing that someone took the time to read and consider your work enough to leave commentary, and it truly helps me with my writing, both on this tale and with my work in general._


	6. Something Rotten

**Chapter Six: Something Rotten in the State of Ferelden**

She hoped that this would be the last time.

Not that it was absolutely intolerable to slide into the compartment beneath the false floor of Levi Dryden's wagon beside Nathaniel at every checkpoint they encountered. It was infinitely more pleasant to the alternative, which would involve being discovered by Arl Howe's soldiers, who were no doubt instigating these searches for the very purpose of finding Eliante Cousland after her little stunt in Harper's Ford.

"The man I bought this wagon off of said it was built for 'safely transporting high quality goods'," Levi had commented the first time he had revealed the compartment to them. "Never thought I'd be using it to smuggle people."

"This is so exciting," Anders had practically gushed, having inordinate amounts of fun as Nathaniel tried to adjust into a comfortable position against the cedar-lined interior. "You really have no idea how refreshing it is to not be the one everyone is looking for, for once."

"I'm sure," Nathaniel had grunted, sliding over to make room for Eliante.

That had been two days ago. The first time they had been stopped, Eliante's palms had grown damp at the threat of discover; now, three checkpoints later, it had all become routine. Her shoulder blades still complained at the hardwood they rested against, but the general awkwardness of having to lie so still and so quiet so close to Nathaniel as though they were corpses in a crypt had grown commonplace.

She yawned and adjusted her shoulders, trying to find a more comfortable position for her lower back. Beside her, Nathaniel was as still as ever, tense, ill at ease. She sighed slightly under her breath. He took everything so seriously these days, probably with good reason but it had made him poor traveling company. While she had ridden her stolen mare –newly rechristened "Dancer" –up ahead, to loiter near where Levi and Anders sat on the wagon, Nathaniel had stayed behind to bring up the rear, quiet in voice and unreadable in manner.

Yawning again, she closed her eyes. It was warm beneath the wagon's false floor with Nathaniel beside her: a comforting contrast to the chilly paths up towards the mining tunnels that would take them to Soldier's Peak, high in the mountains. Sleepily, she took a deep breath, unintentionally inhaling the aroma of cedar wood, the soap she had bathed with that morning, and the familiar scent of Nathaniel beside her: a hint of the apples she knew he preferred, a tang like the air near the ocean, the leather of his jerkin and boots, and something secret. She felt a drowsy whim to… have sex, bizarrely, and, barring that, roll over and bury her nose in the triangle of skin near his neck that his shirt left bare.

The wagon started with a lurch that she had not expected and Eliante found herself launched toward Nathaniel in a distinctly not-seductive way. He braced his hands against her shoulders, holding her steady and silent as footsteps followed by the scraping sound of wood on wood was heard from above them. Hastily, she slid away to "her" side of the compartment, cheeks flaming a color crimson he couldn't see in the darkness.

Even the dim lighting of the wagon's interior was blinding compared to the compartment. Eliante blinked before taking Anders's outstretched hand, accepting his unspoken offer to pull her up to her feet. The apostate healer was in a cheery mood, so she assumed that the latest "trade manifest inspection" had gone swimmingly, despite his complaints: "I swear, that soldier gave me such a dirty look and I have no idea what I did to deserve it. All I did was sit back and let Levi do the talking, just like you told me I should, but I don't see the point of keeping mum if it makes no difference anyhow."

"Brought it on yourself," Nathaniel muttered, getting to his feet and dusting off his clothes. "Do you always insist on wearing those robes?"

"Not when I'm naked I don't," Anders muttered with a snicker, winking slyly at Eliante.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. Eliante laughed. "Why so keen on going to Soldier's Peak?" she asked Anders, still grinning. "I get why Levi wants to look into the place, but you've got no relation and I didn't pin you as the treasure-hunting type."

The apostate's smile wavered ever so slightly. "Depends on what kind of treasure we're talking about," he replied. "I like secrets and a hidden stronghold in the middle of the mountains isn't the worst place to hunker down and wait out the passing Templar patrol."

"You're being evasive," Nathaniel stated flatly.

"Am I? I was under the impression that I was just telling you all about my clothing habits. Would you like my mother's maiden name too?"

"Evasive," Nathaniel repeated. "I'm going to go ride ahead."

As the wagon door swung shut behind the young noble, Anders sighed and made a face at Eliante. "Cheery fellow, isn't he? How the blazes he ever fell in with the likes of you is a mystery."

"Likes of me?" Eliante repeated, choosing to ignore the rest.

"Oh, I don't know. Civil, basic sense of humor, pretty," he offered up the last option with another broad smile. "He's awfully lucky to have you."

"He doesn't have me," she rebuffed, scowling. "I'm not a thing to be had."

"Pity," replied Anders, smile turning sly. "I can hear hearts breaking all across Thedas at that disappointing statement, mine included. I suppose my dream of shooting lightning at fools with a pretty girl at my side will just have to wait."

Eliante opened her mouth to respond and promptly dissolved into a conveniently timed coughing fit. "Right," she finally managed, wanting to smack herself on the forehead for not having a wittier response at the ready. "Levi in a chatty mood?"

"If you want to talk about Dryden family history, always," replied Anders with a shrug. "Other than that, I swear he talks to the horses about the weather more than he does to me and we've known each other for months."

"He's probably known the horses longer," Eliante pointed out, "and the horses don't try and steer the conversation anywhere other than the Dryden disgrace."

"Fair point," he chuckled, crossing the narrow space of the wagon to clear off the flat surface of a stacked chest. Pulling a sack from a shelf, the contents of which clinked at the disturbance, he began to spread vials out across his makeshift workspace the way Eleanor Cousland had organized jewelry across her daughter's dresser. Eliante turned away with a pang at the comparison; Anders noticed.

"Yeah," he said with a rueful smile. "I know mixing poultices isn't the best-smelling business. If you're going to turn green on me though, you'd best head out for some air."

It was a fair cover to hide behind; she nodded in agreement before undoing the latch on the wagon's front and ducking out into the chilly sunshine.

Levi was clicking his teeth at his horses, snapping the reins to urge them up and over a dip in the pockmarked and generally ill-maintained road as Eliante took a seat on the bench beside him. "It's _supposed _to be summer," she complained, shivering.

"Mountain air," Levi explained as the wagon trundled onward. "Bracing, isn't it?"

"At least it's not as muggy as Highever can get sometimes," she compromised. "I thought I was going to drown in the humidity at Harper's Ford."

"It was a brave thing you did there," replied the merchant, dropping one side of the reins to adjust the fur-lined cap he had donned. "Seeing you up there on the cart, fighting for your family's honor and that poor sod's life, well, it just made me wonder if that was anything like how it'd been for my great-great-grandmother."

"How it had been?" Eliante repeated questioningly, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, what I meant was how she might've sounded, fighting for her justice against the king." He shrugged. "Or maybe more like Moira Theirin. Don't quote me on this; I'm no historian."

"Thanks?" She crinkled her nose. "I would just prefer it if I didn't end up like either of them, with my head chopped off or my family in disgrace. Drydens do have a bit of a blackened name in some circles, you know."

He chuckled, taking her by surprise. "All I have to say to that is that I'd wager the daughter of Teyrn Cousland probably already knows that things are rarely as simple as they seem."

Eliante found she had little to say to that so she chose to say nothing at all, keeping quiet as the wagon trundled onward toward the shadow of the mountain and the fortress braced against its side.

* * *

"Well," Anders finally offered after a long moment's stunned silence upon emerging from the last of the mining tunnels and first surveying the courtyard, "it does have certain… atmosphere to the place, wouldn't you agree?"

"Corpses need to be burned," Nathaniel commented, turning over an exposed ribcage with the toe of his boot, "and the burning is several decades overdue, I should think."

Eliante rubbed her palms together, blowing on her fingertips, wishing her gloves didn't leave her hands above the knuckles exposed. Fervently, she conjured up waking dreams of rabbit fur-lined mittens in a world where she didn't have to sacrifice comfort for the ability to manipulate a weapon. Behind her, Levi braced a block of wood beneath the back wheel of his wagon and hitched the reins of Nathaniel's and her horses to the same harness as his own. The usually chattering merchant was oddly quiet.

"The fortress is huge," Anders was saying meanwhile, "and just look at all these out-buildings; you could fit the village I grew up in in here. But I'll bet any library would be installed in the citadel proper, wouldn't it?"

"Trying to catch up on the lessons you missed when you decided to play runaway?" asked Nathaniel with a slight sneer.

"Looking for the dirty books, actually. The Templars confiscated them all for their personal enjoyment when I was about thirteen. Imagine having to play _everything _by ear…" Anders shook his head, seemingly crushed by the memory, as he approached the nearest mound of corpses, fire dancing between his fingertips. "I suppose these bones are as good a place to start as any."

There was a whoosh of air and a crackle of the electricity-like pulse through the air at the presence of magic as Anders launched a fireball directly into the center of the pile of bodies. Eliante raised a hand to shield her eyes from the eruption of resounding sparks. When she lowered it, the bones smoldered but they no longer remained at rest.

Eliante froze. Anders's jaw dropped an increment. The ancient corpses seemed to have taken issue with their immolation and had reanimated themselves in a swirl of ash-like dust to express their objection. Leering, snarling, and slightly smoking, they staggered and stumbled forward, dragging their rusted weapons with them with the clear will and obvious intent to use them against the intruders.

The horses whinnied and reared in panic, stamping their hooves against the snow and frozen dirt. An arrow whizzed past Eliante's left ear and buried itself in the exposed skull of one risen skeleton. The creature gave pause and plucked the shaft of the arrow from the hole where its consciousness used to reside. It seemed to gaze at the broken shaft in its hand, almost contemplative, before it tossed the slender piece of wood aside and resumed its advance towards the small group of the living.

"The Veil must have been torn!" Anders was shouting, lifting up a massive arcane shield as arrows began to rain down upon them, but hardly anyone was paying him much attention, preoccupied as they were with the fact that they were being slowly but surely boxed in. "And, from the looks of it, it's been torn pretty badly. If we could find the source, maybe we could fix it!"

"Or get torn apart by demons for our trouble!" Nathaniel growled, notching and releasing another arrow from his bow.

"As opposed to them?" retorted Anders, waving a hand at the encroaching horde.

Eliante pushed past a stunned Levi, dagger in hand, and cut through the leads that bound the horses to the wagon. The animals immediately took off into the tunnels and to presumable safety. "Everyone into the citadel," she ordered. "We don't need another horde of enemies marching on the north."

Nathaniel's longbow –although he had purloined it from her bedroom at Highever, it clearly belonged to him now –unleashed a rapid succession of barbed arrows in an attempt at suppressive fire as they all backed through the shattered and splintered gates of the citadel proper. Three arrows embedded themselves in the eye socket of a leering corpse and it crumpled back against the scorched snow. "Got one," he announced in triumph.

"That was _my _spell that did that," Anders contested, piqued. "I studied everything I could find about the school of entropy in the Tower library and its effectiveness causing vulnerability on the risen dead; it was _very _appalling to Senior Enchanter Wynne who _seemed _for some reason to think I would use it on–"

"Anders!" Eliante interrupted as Levi ducked past the main entrance into the shadow of the interior. "Some more fire before it gets its feet back under it please?!"

Chastised, the apostate mage unleashed a blaze that effectively covered their retreat into the fortress proper. Once inside, he used the reserves of his available spell-power to erect a shimmering barrier across the entrance before dropping to his knees, exhausted. The undead howled in frustration. "Well," said Anders, panting, "That old bat of an enchanter was good for a few useful tricks after all."

Running a hand across the shimmering surface of the barrier, Eliante gazed through the sheer curtain of magic at the swarming undead beyond. "Will it hold for very long?"

"Keep me breathing and I'll keep it up for as long as you need, sweet lady," replied Anders, popping the cork of a vial of a quicksilver-like blue liquid and draining its contents.

"Don't guzzle it all at once," remarked Nathaniel, observing. "Lyrium is harder to acquire in these parts than you'd expect."

"I think I'll leave the guzzling to the Templars." He got to his feet, dusting off the front of his robes. "Where to next?"

"You said there was some kind of hole in the Veil," Eliante replied, a crease between her eyebrows at her uncertainty on the general subject of the Fade. "I doubt we can find gold, or family history," she added with a glance at Levi, "with demons gnawing at our heels."

"I don't know," said Levi, looking out through the barrier at the legion of undead. "This seems like a more dangerous legacy to inherit than I'd hoped for."

Nathaniel smiled grimly. "Everything has a catch or a string attached to it. You've been around long enough to realize that. I certainly have."

They did not immediately encounter the tear in the Fade proper. What they found first after exploring the massive fortress was instead just a symptom, but no less disturbing.

"Not Wardens then," said the symptom in question in a deeper and more gravelly voice that seemed to suit its armored yet feminine frame. "Huh. This was not expected."

"I don't seem to remember any of the other corpses trying to strike up a conversation," remarked Nathaniel quietly from beside Eliante.

"This one enjoys its continued existence," answered the decaying body attired in armor stamped with the Grey Warden insignia, "as it is sure that you do. The others were simple, weak-minded, only fit for killing and feeding. This one has other purposes in mind."

The figure turned about to face them. Eliante's stomach turned over as her eyes took in the blotchy and bruised skin, the rotting lips and gums, the yellowed teeth, the ratted hair. Anders apparently saw other things.

"Levi!" he exclaimed. "She has your nose!"

The decaying woman rounded on the merchant. "You are the one called Dryden?" it demanded. "This one once also bore such a name. This one has called for you."

Levi turned white at the attention. "Great-great-grandmother?" he asked weakly.

"Yes," replied the corpse with a jeering smirk. "This one was once called many things: My lady, Warden-commander, Sophia."

"Hate to break it to you," Anders said in one quick breath, "but I think that your great-great-grandmother's been possessed, Levi."

"Either that or she's really let herself go," replied Levi, still in a state of general astonishment at the events transpiring around him.

"The year I was in Kirkwall, the Templars were hunting blood mages left and right," remarked Nathaniel in quiet amazement, "but I never saw anything like this, in all the traveling the Viscount had me do."

"Enough chatter!" roared what had once been Sophia Dryden as Eliante opened her mouth to make a comment of her own. "This one has had done with patience. The time is for action. This one would make a deal."

"Well, _this _one," said Eliante, nodding at Levi, "would know of Sophia."

"Not like this," Levi responded instantly. "Whatever that is, that's not my grandmother."

"And what it is is a _demon_," Anders pointed out, "and, fascinating as it is, it's not something to make deals with."

"This one heard you as you conspired in the hall," interposed the demon smoothly. "This one knows you would have the Veil repaired and the wealth and knowledge of this place. This one would give that to you, for so small a price."

"It's a demon," Anders insisted.

"I hate to admit it but the mage is right," said Nathaniel. "_No one_ likes demons, not the Circle mages, not the Templars, no one. And for a very good reason."

The thing that had been Sophia's milky eyes seemed to bore into Eliante's. "And _this _one," it said, referring to the young woman before it, "would lead a rebellion. This one has all the memories of Sophia. This one knows how to be an instrument of dissent. This one would carve you into such a thing, lead your rebellion, take back what's yours."

"Eliante," said Nathaniel in warning.

It was a long moment before she found her voice. The milky eyes, so disturbing at first glance, became symbols of the power at the creature's fingertips; she found herself remembering Nan's stories of the witches who would allow their true age to be evident in order to show off the ravishment of their power. Arl Howe would die; she and this creature could make the traitorous bastard hang himself if they so pleased.

"_Your place is with your brother and the both of you making your mark on the world."_

"Eliante," she heard again.

"Thanks but no thanks," she said to the demon inside Sophia Dryden's body. "I'll be my own instrument of dissent."

"Fools," the demon within Sophia's corpse snarled, the wisps of hair that remained on its exposed skull seeming to smoke. Eliante recoiled, feeling the lately too familiar sensation of fear, convinced that none of her training could have prepared her for a fight with a demon, and a sentient demon at that. That was what Templars were for, wasn't it? It should not have ever been her problem.

"It's opening a portal!" Anders was shouting but she didn't quite understand. Portal to where? The Fade? For the first time, Eliante Cousland began to truly wonder if her education had been insufficient.

The demon charged forward, rotted teeth bared in a roar, as purple fog gathered in the corners of the chamber. By reflex, Eliante braced one dagger against the other and parried the blade in the reanimated Warden-Commander's grip as Levi dove under a table for cover. Distracted by the multiple shrouded figures manifesting amongst the fog, Nathaniel and Anders left Eliante to combat the demon alone, however unwilling they might have been to leave her on her own.

"Everything!" it raged as it rained down blows upon the slighter warrior, blocking the majority of Eliante's own blows with its shield. "Everything you wanted! Everything you deserved! More!"

Its heavy longsword sliced into her cheek with that final howl of a word, barely missing her right ear and carving a clean line from hairline to jaw, cutting perpendicular to her high cheekbone. Eliante stumbled backwards, unable to stifle the immediate outcry of pain at the contact.

Heads turned at the sound; an arrow embedded itself into the bruised skin at the base of the corpse's hairline: nonlethal but an effective distraction. The demon turned on Nathaniel just as Anders shouted, "Here!" as he thrust his mage's staff into the space above his head, ice crackled about its tip. The same frost splintered across the corpse's armored arm, dangerously cold, following the line of the limb up to its shoulder and beyond. Within moments, Sophia Dryden and the demon within her were an effective ice sculpture. A very ugly ice sculpture.

For a moment, there was no sound except Anders's heavy breathing at the exertion of preforming the frost spell. Nathaniel lowered his bow. But suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Nathaniel was yanked backward, an arm draped in unraveling stained fabric locked around the archer's neck: one of the shades that apparently had not been banished effectively. Gasping for air, he clawed at the shade's wrist, legs beginning to jerk in desperation as he struggled for a bid at freedom.

Acting out of instinct, Eliante scrambled to her feet, furious at the turn of events. Abandoning her blades to the floor stained with the blood dripping from her face, she launched herself forward, trying to tackle the shrouded figure from behind, fingers grasping at its face, searching for the presumed eyes. Her efforts proved somewhat successful; the shade swirled away in a cloud of the same purple fog and both Eliante and Nathaniel ended up falling to the floor. The latter hit the floorboards first; the former hit his back hard, both somewhat dazed upon impact.

Across the room, Anders chanted an incantation, conjuring glowing glyphs to appear upon the floor before him. Moments later, the shade reappeared, suspended in a shimmering prison. Smiling smugly, Anders tilted his staff downward to brush against the spirit's robes, setting it alight as it howled wordlessly at the flames licking at its form.

Eliante rolled off of Nathaniel and, collecting herself, rolled him over. He gazed up at her, gray eyes still dazed. "You're bleeding," he observed, his voice scraped, as a drop of her blood specked his ear.

She touched his throat, finding the splotches of red that might darken into bruises in the hours to come. "I'll get better."

"So," said Anders cheerily as he pulled Levi up to his feet, the merchant having emerged from beneath the table, "was your great-great-grandmother everything you hoped for?"

Levi shook his head, eyes wide as her took in the complete chaos of the chamber post-battle, the centerpiece of the frozen corpse. "Whatever that was," he said, "it couldn't have been her. It couldn't have been."

"Well, it wasn't the tear in the Fade either," replied the mage. "Ah well. Plenty more fortress to explore."

* * *

Through the windows, the shouts and clang of metal on metal of a battle long since passed filled Eliante's ears as pale apparitions of armored figures scurried to and forth in preparation for the onslaught in the courtyard, fading in and out of the same violet fog. Beside her, Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and Levi's widened at the sight as Anders checked rooms, opening doors, peering through, and then shutting them. The mage's companions seemed more concerned with the faded scene manifesting itself before their eyes.

"_Too long!" _an armored woman who bore a haunting resemblance to the possessed corpse Nathaniel had shattered with a particularly heavy candlestick. _"Too long have we bowed beneath the yoke of oppression! The tyrant's hounds have chased us into our fortress but we will hold! We will stand firm! And, should we fall here, all of Ferelden will know what we stood for!"_

Her words lifted her men's spirits and weapons. When the great double-doors to the hall splintered, the Wardens charged the invaders with new vigor, cutting down the trespassers, but even Wardens could only hold off legions of soldiers for so long. There seemed to be no end to the king's men and soon bodies in tunics embellished with griffons joined the mass grave on the floor.

"_Avernus!" _Sophia cried out, knocking down an enemy archer with her massive shield. _"Avernus, we need you!"_

The robed man, fair of hair color and slight of figure, near the opposite doorway looked to her, already pale face wan with fear. Sophia nodded slowly at him, her own face grim and desperate: a nod which he returned with the same resolved despair before looking down at the ongoing death that surrounded them. Murmuring an incantation, he drew a small knife and used the etched blade to slice vertically across his palm.

The very currents in the air itself seemed to answer his call. A shattering roar sounded; friendly and enemy heads turned alike at the echo. Puddles of the same sickly violet fog that filled the room bubbled up from the floor; shades akin to those Eliante, Nathaniel, Anders, and Levi had already encountered swirled into being. Howling, they swooped downward from their portals, descending upon and grasping at warden and soldier alike, crunching bones and scattering bodies.

"_No!" _the mage –Avernus –shouted at the shades. _"The king's men! The king's men!" _

The final demon that had arrived turned to him, its body a mass of fire and bubbling earth. _"Foolish mortal,"_ it crowed. _"You walk about the mortal world, thinking yourself so tall, playing with magic you cannot begin to comprehend. Your world is mine now."_

"_Avernus!"_ Sophia's voice screamed but the apparitions were abruptly dissolved, the shadows of demons and mortals blinking out of being to be replaced by the figure of an ancient human male in worn but elaborate robes. "Enough," he said gruffly, driving the staff in his hand downward with a resounding clang. "You have my attention. I have no desire to relive the past."

Eliante looked at him strangely, bewildered, until she noted the turned up nose, the hooded brows, and connected the dots. "You're the mage," she realized. "You're the warden mage that raised the demons."

"Nobody move but I _think _he's a blood mage," Anders muttered and Nathaniel scowled at the ancient mage. "Shouldn't be walking and talking," the archer griped. "It's not natural."

Avernus's mouth twitched. "I suppose that's for you to decide," he said. "Yes, I am Avernus, Grey Warden and mage, second to the Warden-Commander Sophia."

"Sophia Dryden," said Levi. "You knew her."

"Sophia," Avernus corrected reprovingly. "Just Sophia. Wardens are duty-bound to leave all other prior obligations behind when they join or are conscripted, as she was. It is a rule created to prevent the very catastrophes that occurred in these halls. But I am Avernus. And you are?"

"Levi Dryden," said the merchant, shocked by the direct address. He hastily added a little half-bow to the introduction, face somewhat sheepish as he came up from the gesture. "I'm a merchant. Most of us Drydens are, nowadays. We made ourselves an honorable name in that industry since the disgrace."

"Ah, I had wondered about the recovery from the Drydens' fall from grace."

"Nathaniel Howe," Nathaniel said when the mage's eyes passed to him. "And this is Eliante Cousland."

Avernus smiled faintly at Eliante; she felt a shiver crawl up her spine at the expression. "The last time I saw one of your relatives," he told her, "his severed head had an apple between its teeth."

She bit down on her lip. "I take it that the Wardens weren't the only ones involved in the rebellion."

"It was a formidable conspiracy," Avernus agreed, "and Sophia was at the heart of it. All for naught, alas. I was not aware that the Circle allowed mages to wander freely in this day and age."

That final remark was directed at Anders, who jumped at the sudden attention. "Well, no," he admitted, "but they made an exception for me, since I'm so charming and handsome."

"You knew her," said Levi in quiet wonder. "You were alive back then to know her and here you are."

With a heavy sigh, Avernus nodded. "Here I am," he agreed. "I suppose you would hear something of your infamous ancestor? She was brave, she was notorious, and she was beautiful. She could raise an army in her favor or make her enemies cower in fear with her voice alone. And we followed her without question."

"You raised demons for her," Nathaniel pointed out, quietly accusing.

"I did terrible things for Sophia," agreed Avernus softly. "Terrible, terrible things. We all did. Her cause against the king should have begun and ended with her but somehow she drew us all in under the banner when she should not have done so. When we should not have allowed her."

A silence seemed to drop with those heavy words and it was not to be broken until Anders cleared his throat. "Well," said the mage, "I was going to ask a book but you seem so much nicer and more helpful and… inventive. You would know all about the Rite of Conscription, wouldn't you?"

Avernus raised his eyebrows. "The one that binds princes and paupers alike to the will of the Grey Wardens?"

"Yes. That one," Anders took a deep breath. "How does one get out of it?"

* * *

_Please forgive me for not getting to responding to reviews for this chapter in a timely manner. I'm traveling (again) but I found some Wi-Fi to post this update. As always, thank you so much to my reviewers. It really means so much to me._


	7. Many Bad Men

**Chapter Seven: Many Bad Men**

Fergus Cousland took one look at that state of affairs in Lothering and then immediately set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the tavern. He followed the familiar stench of drunkenness and desperation, intent on following through with the impulse that had been nagging at him ever since he had encountered these Maker-forsaken "Wardens" and heard their account of Ostagar's outcome: Find himself a strong drink.

That plan was delayed if not altogether thwarted when he reached the bridge at the hamlet's heart and what awaited him there.

"Have you seen my mother?" asked the young boy, swinging his legs once, twice, before sliding down from the bridge's low wall, putting himself directly in Fergus's path.

Weary blue-gray eyes conducted a survey, unable to help themselves, trying to be dispassionate and detached: the child's hair was a coppery red that had never been seen on a Cousland head in recent memory, not even in the oldest portraits in the gallery at Highever House in Denerim. That helped, especially since the boy was already too similar in height and age, his wan little face smudged with dirt and sweat like his son's had been, that afternoon when Oren had first been let loose to explore and/or "pillage" the pantry, following in his father's and aunt's footsteps in the hunt for dire bunnies.

"I don't know," Fergus said and then, partly to distract himself, partly to punish himself, asked, "What does your mother look like?"

"She's really tall…"

Oriana had always claimed so much, despite the fact that she was lucky to be described as middling height. But Fergus was no giant amongst men and she suited him.

"…with really red hair…"

Again, the uncommon hair color was a welcome illusion-breaker, but it was not to last.

"…and really, really pretty."

He had had her portrait and nothing more when he had pledged himself to wed Oriana Carrillo de Rialto in the Highever chapel, standing opposite an empty place: a painted miniature no larger than the palm of his hand. He had often studied it, cynically doubting that the girlish prettiness was anything more than false flattery to the sitter and a deceptive enticement for himself. But then she had come off of the ship in Denerim some months later and even through the heavy lace of her mantilla, he could see she was truly exquisite. "Lucky," his friends and former fellow bachelors had called him. Even Nathaniel Howe, their parents conspiring a betrothal between the Howe eldest and Fergus's little sister, had clapped him on the back and smirked. Vaughan Kendells had positively leered after Fergus's betrothed (although he had done that to Eliante and Habren and the latter wasn't even much of a prize) at the queen's state dinner the following evening. They had called him lucky. They had all called him lucky.

Fergus Cousland. The lucky bastard.

"Where's your father?" he asked the boy, shaking himself back into the present.

"Gone to the neighbor's," was the prompt reply. "Mother had we were supposed to wait for him but it's been four whole days. And then these men showed up at the farm and I didn't know them. Mother didn't either and she pushed me out the other door and told me to run to town. She said that she would follow but I've been waiting and waiting and I haven't seen her."

Fergus was quiet. Here was another lost soul, standing right in front of him, and yet he found himself as powerless to help the child as he had been to protect his men from the assassins. As powerless as he seemed to be to protect his family from their supposed sins. But if he had not protected them, his own, what made this random worthy of misplaced guardianship anyway?

"Here," he said with a sigh, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a handful of silver. The assassins had strangely not seen fit to go through his pockets. Killers with moral stances. "Take this. Go to the chantry. Find a priest to put you on a caravan north. Can you do that for me?"

"I will, sir!" the boy chirped, gazing down at the shine of coin in his hand. "But I think I'd best wait a little while longer, in case she comes here."

"But on the second day, you'll go," said Fergus, looking intently at the child. "Promise me."

The boy hesitated. "I… I promise," he answered uncertainly. "On the second day, I'll go."

Fergus nodded. "Off you go then. Don't let anyone know you're on your own or you've got coin until you've found the priest. Go, then."

There was an audible sniff from somewhere behind him as the boy scampered off. He turned about to find Morrigan at his left elbow, unsettlingly close and silent in step. "I'll give it until noon," she commented idly.

"Noon?"

"I'll give it until noon before all that silver has been magically winked away. 'Twas a useless gesture. One would think that such a high and mighty noble would have learned that the weak remain weak unless they make themselves otherwise, not if someone does that for them."

He ignored her and, with another sniff, she disappeared from the space near his elbow. But even with her absence, he could not shake the feeling of being observed. His eyes scanned the hordes of refugees and deserters passing through Lothering until he espied a young woman watching him. He nearly called out to her upon registering her red hair –she did not look perhaps _too _young to have had a child –but he reconsidered at the sight of her Chantry robes. Catching his gaze with her own, she smiled a sibylline smile at him before turning her attention to the prayer book in her hands and fading into the crowd around the tavern.

Slightly unnerved and generally put on edge by the terrified people around him, he turned back to find Mordred in Morrigan's place. He nearly jumped at the shock –nearly. He could not forget the initial instinctual impulse to run when he had first encountered Mordred and, intentionally or otherwise, it colored Fergus's opinion on the young mage.

And he was young. Fergus would mark his unasked-for companion at the age of twenty; nearly a decade the noble's junior. Not that youth alone belied a threat; his sister's sharp tongue was proof enough of that. Mordred was different. The adopted name, which he would have found in anyone else to be presumptuous beyond belief, seemed to suit the understated yet calculating young man. There was something off-putting about his manner, as disconcerting as the streaks of gray in the mage's dark hair before his time, and Fergus could not point to any particular characteristic or habit and say to himself, "Ah. There it is. There is a reason for it all. You're not being paranoid."

No. There was nothing. The mage was polite, courteous, and honest by evidence. Or so the floods of refugees and deserters from Ostagar accounted for.

"Do you believe us now?" Mordred asked quietly as though he had followed the noble's train of thought and the back of Fergus's neck prickled at the question.

And there was that. Although that could have been just coincidence, just sheer damn luck. Even so, it rattled Fergus Cousland from head to toe.

"I believe you were speaking the truth when you all claimed that Cailan lost his head at Ostagar," he replied curtly and then swallowed, "and in more ways than one."

The corners of Mordred's mouth turned upward but his smile remained close-lipped. "I've discovered that it's rather difficult to inform a king that he's being arrogant," he commented affably, "or even to suggest that fact to another. Duncan didn't take it kindly when I suggested that Cailan was overconfident –although I might have stated the matter a little bluntly. Loghain, not so shockingly in retrospect, was somewhat more open to the idea of the king being stupid. He told me to pray that Cailan would be 'amenable to reason.'"

"Clearly Cailan was not 'amenable' enough," remarked Fergus dryly.

"Or I didn't pray enough."

Fergus permitted himself a sharp bark of a laugh. "Piety wasn't the issue. Politics was, as it usually is. Duncan was as interwoven in it all as anybody else important at Ostagar, regardless of whether he was playing at being above it all."

"Warden-Commander is a rather important position to be in when there's a Blight in your country. Duncan, for all Alistair gripes about his good qualities, didn't do so good a job. I can only hope to do better."

"You, Warden-Commander of Ferelden?" Fergus didn't bother to conceal his skepticism. Mordred was young and a mage above all else. "Not Alistair?"

The younger man shot him a sliver of a glance. "Not Alistair," he repeated, his straightforward tone turning Fergus's query into a statement of fact.

"And you two are the only Wardens left in the whole of Ferelden? Weren't there other recruits back at the camp?"

Mordred hesitated before answering. "They… never left Ostagar," he finally said. "And the one that was recruited with me at the Circle, he jumped ship along the way south. We were Conscripted about the same time; Duncan had just found him in the Tower's dungeons and I was being led there myself when we ran into the man. Greagoir had a fit."

"Conscripted? So you weren't jumping at the chance to become a Warden." He snorted. "If you and Alistair even are Wardens."

"You have doubts?"

Yes and no. He did and he did not. If Alistair was indeed the royal bastard Bryce Cousland had spoken of, playing at Warden wasn't a bad way to slither into a place of power in Ferelden, especially since the rest of the Wardens were seemingly dead and Cailan the same and, being dead, neither could dispute either the claim at Wardenship or Theirin bloodlines. But upon spending any significant portion of time with the maybe-usurper, it had become somewhat clear to Fergus that Alistair had just about no leadership qualities or ambitions beyond the Grey Wardens to speak of. It hardly surprised him to hear Mordred already calling himself Warden-Commander.

But he looked at Mordred with the discerning eye his parents' had installed in him at a young age. He saw that the young mage's eyes were bright beneath the façade of easy cordiality, that the reluctance and apprehension he had seen in Alistair were absent in this other so-called Warden. No, he would not be surprised at all to discover that Mordred was playing at Grey Warden and had pulled Alistair along with him somehow.

That left the mystery of Morrigan. At first, he had thought it a toss-up as to whether she was bedding down with Alistair or Mordred; why else would they tolerate her attitude? Now, it was rather clear it was the latter if it was either.

"You hardly seem educated about your own Order," Fergus settled upon. "It just seems odd is all."

Mordred's face was unreadable. "A fair point," he conceded. "But there is more evidence for our story than there is against," he added with a nod to the refugees.

"I still don't know what to make of you telling me that neither Arl Howe nor my father was at the meeting table with the king and Loghain," he pointed out. "It's not a matter of evidence against you; it's a matter of holes. I woke up in the Wilds after assassins took down my scouting party to a world that doesn't make sense; you see why I'm skeptical."

"No one is denying you your right to question," Mordred stated mildly

"I'm just doubting the lack of answers to my questions," Fergus replied quietly. "And I mean answers that make bloody sense."

"Still fair," said Mordred with a shrug. "I take it you were going to the tavern; I was as well. Do you mind the company?"

Fergus bit back his immediate impulse. "My father had a captain when I was a boy who said that he couldn't trust a man until he'd shared a drink with him," he said instead.

"He sounds like a good man," he commented as they started across the bridge.

"Oh, he made a ritual of drinking every new recruit under the table. The boy he made his squire woke up in the chicken coop after a night's drinking with the men."

"I meant your father," Mordred clarified after a pause.

Something sharp caught in Fergus's throat. He realized that for all of the minutes and hours he had spent laboring over the memory of his son and wife and what could have become of them, he had barely spared a thought to his own parents. But now was hardly the time to dwell on such things. "Yeah," he finally replied. "He was a good man. And a good father. The best I could have hoped for."

Just then, something in Mordred's mask of politeness snapped. For just a moment, barely perceptible, his green-gray eyes hardened and the skin around his mouth tightened. His eyes flashed a more vibrant hue of green that almost immediately faded away; Fergus would not have caught it had he not been looking for it. But he did not linger on the unnaturalness of it; childish, he was only pleased that he had said something to provoke a reaction in this most level-headed of mages.

"Mages don't know their parents, do they?" the noble asked after a moment, watching to see if his words inspired another reaction.

He was to be disappointed. Mordred's face revealed nothing this time. "Some of us do," he said in reply before falling silent.

With that cryptic response, Mordred walked a few steps ahead and pushed open the wooden door to the tavern. The sigh above the entrance called it "Dane's Refuge." Fergus found himself doubting if any of the patrons within were doing anything to actively seek refuge from the encroaching threat other than drink themselves into forgetting about the monsters in the south.

It was soon made very clear that at least three soldiers in the bar were present for other purposes.

At Fergus and Mordred's entrance, the clamor in the room began to die down as eyes turned on the newcomers. Fergus looked from patron to patron, realizing that something was once again off about the situation at hand. The women in the room were few and far between and most seemed to be of the typical camp-follower brand, although he spotted the Chantry sister alone at a corner table, her copper haired head bent to her prayer book, seemingly not to mark their entrance. She was unfortunately in the minority.

"Well, well, well," said the man in mud-encrusted grey iron chainmail, standing at the forefront of the crowd as two others came up to flank him. Fergus was beginning to hate that word, especially repeated thrice. Nothing good ever seemed to follow that particular phrase. "Looks like we just got lucky, boys." Again, nothing good came from hearing that. "We spend a week scouring the countryside for this sod and he just happens to stroll into this dump."

Fergus reached for his blade, slightly surprised that whoever had gone to all of the trouble of the assassins would descend to hiring these louts. But when he tried to stare them down, make them back off, he found that he was not the target of their attention. It was Mordred.

The very air in the tavern was tight with tension. Mordred stared down the man who had spoken. It was like the strain when Arl Howe and Bryce Cousland would play chess together; long-standing friendship suspended in the moment of competition before one or the other made a move. Mordred stared at the man and Fergus stared at Mordred. Whose move would it be first?

"Gentlemen," the voice that spoke was light and feminine, a voice that seemed more like to laugh than to shout, "there is hardly any need for drama, is there?"

"Step back, sister," said the leader of the soldiers. Fergus followed the path of his address and found the Chantry sister who had been watching him in the village square, her prayer book closed and pocketed, and a dagger prominent on her belt, smiling charmingly at the man. "We have a mandate to take any Grey Wardens we find into custody and, barring that, remove them altogether."

"By whose order?" Fergus interjected. Mordred said nothing.

"By the order of Teyrn Loghain," was the answer. "Don't you know that the Grey Wardens killed the king, man?"

"Loghain killed the king," said Mordred quietly. "He sounded the retreat and left Cailan to die on the battlefield with our commander."

"He had no choice. Your beacon was too late and I doubt that was a mistake on your part!"

"Oi!" interrupted Fergus again. "You're speaking to Fergus Cousland, son of the Teyrn of Highever. I want the full story of what happened at Ostagar and I want it now."

Loghain's soldier's eyes widened. "Cousland? Wardens and an Orlesian traitor together? Men!"

"Traitor?!" Fergus sputtered in outrage and the chantry sister protested, "Surely there is no need for violence!" But the soldiers in the bar had already risen to arms and could not be dissuaded from attacking.

He parried the captain's quickly descending blade with his own sword and, muscles screaming complaint at the effort, forced both blades upward as his knee drove hard into the attacker's gut. On his left Mordred rapidly chanted an incantation, power unleashed from his bare hands, coursing through the tavern as people scattered, screaming. One of the lackeys yelled out in terror as he found himself yanked up into the air, thrown against the low ceiling, dust scattering at the impact, and then dropped harshly to the wooden floor.

The third flunky didn't bother after that; hastily, he lowered his crossbow (knowing that he would be unable to load and fire before either the mage or the warrior turned on him) and scuttled towards the back way out of Dane's Refuge. His progress was halted; the red-haired Chantry sister was quick to pull the blade from her belt and another one free from her boot through a convenient slit in her skirt's hem. With a grace that would not seem out of place in a ballroom, she lithely danced around rickety tables and chairs and latched onto the soldier's back, delicately resting the flat of her dagger against his throat.

Casually, she glanced over her shoulder to see Fergus and Mordred standing over the crumpled yet living bodies of the two other assailants. "Ah good," she commented, still disarmingly blithe in manner. "Now we can stop this nonsense."

Fergus kicked the leader in the side; his throat emitted a strangled gasp of pain. The noble then roughly nudged the disabled man over onto his back with the toe of his boot and promptly extended the point of his sword to tickle his enemy's throat. "This man called my family traitors," he growled. "He had better admit to that being nonsense."

The man squirmed, trying in vain to avoid a cut throat. "It's just what I was told!" he sputtered. "That's all!"

"Who is calling my family traitors?!" Fergus snarled, the blade's point digging in ever so slightly. "Loghain? Who? I want names now! Who is it?"

"Everyone."

It was not the man on the floor that spoke. It was the Chantry sister. Fergus tore his furious gaze away from the man at his feet and turned it on her. She met his eyes levelly and with a sympathy that cut him down at the knees. "You're Fergus Cousland?"

"Did I stutter when I said so?"

"Then everyone," she said again. "Everyone. The Grey Wardens killed the king and the Couslands were going to hand the country over to Orlais."

"Lies," said Mordred and Fergus almost simultaneously, one flat in tone, the other fuming. They glanced at each other, glaring, before turning their attention back on the woman. "Loghain left the king to his death," said Mordred, "not the Wardens."

"And Teyrn Loghain says it is the other way around."

"And what do you believe?" asked Mordred, as Fergus continued to absorb the news.

"I believe that darkness is coming," said the Chantry sister, "and that Ferelden and the world need its Grey Wardens."

"Who," said Fergus between clenched teeth, "is calling my family traitors?"

With those words, his grip on his sword tightened and the blade inadvertently pressed deeper against the captain's neck. He gasped out, "Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine. He went to the Teyrn with letters he intercepted. I heard it from the Arl's bodyguard himself. The Queen was to be removed and Cailan free to wed."

Gasps and murmurs sounded amongst the watching crowd at this revelation. Fergus focused on the man at his feet. "What happened?" he breathed. "What has happened to my family? What did that lying bastard do while I was gone?"

"He killed them," was the choked answer.

Fergus turned white and then red. "All of them?"

"All," said one of the other soldiers, the one whose throat the sister has her knife against. "And in their own house. Maker rest their souls."

"Do not," said Fergus between his teeth, "seek my sympathy with your false piety."

He turned his gaze back on the captain, squirming beneath his sword. A long moment passed. Finally, he lifted the blade, turned, and walked slowly out of the tavern, blind to Mordred, the Chantry sister, and the crowd.

The door slammed shut behind him. Mordred exhaled softly and looked down at the spared captain. "I think you're more cut out for the job of messenger boy than soldier," the mage commented casually. "I take it you're on speaking terms with the Teyrn of Gwaren?"

The man nodded emphatically, still too terrified to lift his body from the floor.

Mordred smiled at him. "Then tell the teyrn," he said, "that he's going to have to do better than this."

* * *

There was blood on his hands and a hunting knife in his grip as he methodically cut an incision across the neck of a wolf. He dropped the blade to begin peeling back the skin and the fur with it. It might get a decent price in town, but that wasn't why he was doing it.

There were footsteps behind him. When they stopped some distance from his back, he said roughly, "Away."

"I know how you're feeling," said the voice of the still unnamed Chantry sister, "and I wanted to see if you were alright."

He grunted, disbelieving, and started skinning the dead wolf's front left leg, using a knife to work away at the paw. If his silence would not dissuade her and her obnoxiously charming accent, perhaps the gore would.

She was not to be dissuaded. "I am Leliana." He did not respond. "It was a noble thing you did, back in the tavern. You could have ended that man's life but you chose not to."

"Enough pointless blood has been spilled," he muttered, dropping the skinned leg back against the grass. "The only people I want dead right now are Rendon Howe and that blighter of a son he has. Blood for blood."

"Revenge will not bring them back."

"It will make me feel better."

"Do you really believe that?"

It was only then that he turned to face her with the scarlet staining his hands and the crimson smudged across his forehead. "Yes," he said and there was nothing unwavering or uncertain in that word.

The wind ruffled her red-hair; the short locks were choppy and uneven, as though they had been cut with a rusty pair of scissors and never been properly trimmed since. "I once thought revenge would be the answer," she commented as she dusted off a rock and sat down, as elegant in manner as though it had been the king's own dinner table. "But then when I had it in my hands, I found that I was much mistaken."

"Then we are very different people," he told her and returned to the physical task before him.

"Your companions are somewhere behind us," she said, not to be deterred it seemed.

"They are not my companions. My companions were killed by assassins in the Kocari Wilds some time ago."

"The Grey Wardens you are traveling with, then. Is the woman a Warden as well? She is quite lovely, although her clothing choices could be improved upon."

He laughed sharply. "Don't let her hear you say that. She'll turn into a rat or a spider or a snake and you'll scream."

"There are many more frightening things in this world," said Leliana, "than rats, spiders, or snakes."

"And she may just be one of them."

"Regardless, they encountered a man, a Qunari –I think," she added that bit a moment too late and Fergus knew that she had known quite certainly. "He's in a cage and they seem to be quite fascinated with him. He is considerably less captivated with them, I should think," she said with a tinkle of laughter.

Fergus was less amused. "What's he doing in a cage? And in Ferelden, for that matter. I thought they stuck to the north and I mean north-north, not Ferelden north."

Leliana shrugged prettily but the effect was lost on his turned back. "Who can say? Perhaps he is a simple traveler, as are we all. As for the cage, well," her tone lost quite a bit of its joviality, "they say that he has done terrible things."

"As they have 'said' my family committed treason?"

"Oh, no," she shook her head. "He confessed and over his own accord, under no duress whatsoever. He killed some number of farmers and their families, I heard."

"Did the farmers kill his wife, son, and parents?" Indelicately, he stabbed his carving knife under the skin and worked the flesh beneath away from the fur.

"I hope you're not planning to murder children in your quest for revenge," she said sharply in response.

"Howe's children are all adults," he said roughly, "and one son was certainly grown-up enough it seems to watch his father betray mine and slaughter innocents, if not participate in it himself. I never liked Nathaniel; he was never good enough for my sister and then he up and left."

"Left?"

"Broke off the betrothal," Fergus yanked the blade free, "broke her heart, and then ran to the Free Marches like a coward. I'm shocked he even managed to drag his sorry behind back to Ferelden, much less Highever, with his tail between his legs. Never thought he'd have the stones to come back."

"You don't like him."

"I don't like people who do wrong by my family. Although his sins are considerably less severe than his bastard of a father's."

_Think on your family's sins._

He dropped the half-skinned animal to the ground and stood up. He heard Leliana rise as well as he shoved the knife into his belt. Glancing back at her, he asked, "What are you really doing here?"

"I want to travel with the Grey Wardens," she replied.

Fergus snorted. "That makes one of us. What makes you so eager to throw your lot in with the likes of them?"

She hesitated. "You cannot laugh."

"I think I'm about as far from a laughing mood as I can get. Go on."

"You must promise."

"Fine!" He threw his hands up, unsure of why he was even wasting his time with this. "Out with it now."

"You cannot expect me to tell you when you are being so… callous," she objected.

"Then don't," he replied, sighing heavily in exasperation. "It makes no difference to me."

As he started to walk away, she watched, blue eyes widening. Just as he nearly rounded the bend on the path, she said, "I had a dream. Or maybe it was a vision; I don't know. I was on a cliff… and I saw darkness. Darkness overwhelming; it seemed there was no world left. And I fell into it… or maybe I jumped. I cannot tell. But then I woke up and I went into the garden to pray and I saw a rose, a single rose. It was as though the Maker himself had stretched out his hand to show me that there were still things left worth saving, that even in the darkness there was beauty to be found. That not all was lost."

He stared at her for a few moments and she colored a faint pink. "You are not laughing," she said, tentatively hopeful.

"Only because you made me promise not to," he said dryly and watched as her face turned form rose to crimson.

"You are cruel!" she exclaimed and turned her back on him, stalking away at a brisk pace and disappearing over the small hill.

Fergus watched her go with heartless satisfaction before a slight twinge of guilt tugged at him. In eight words, he had reduced a hopeful, cheery Chantry sister into an embarrassed and probably frightened woman. She had been kind and her intentions were admirable; in some ways, her attitude was not unlike his sister's. But that thought only led to the revelation that Eliante would have been caught up in Howe's slaughter as well, and, after a moment of pure, intense fury, he comforted himself with the thought that if he had not shattered Leliana's illusions, someone else would have and that person might have been even less kind. _Or not a person at all_, he added, thinking of the horde encroaching on Lothering.

* * *

He found their camp along the northern side of the Imperial Highway, the tents and tarps pitched up against the crumbling stone blocks. Dropping his pack to the ground near the fire, Fergus was surprised to see Leliana across the flames, who greeted him with an audible sniff. He sighed. She and Morrigan should form a club.

Speaking of the witch, she did not appear to be present, although he might want to watch for birds in the night sky and the branches of the sparse trees that surrounded them. In her place was a giant of a man with golden-brown skin and eerie violet eyes shadowed by shockingly white hair. Fergus regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension; the man looked at the noble once and then turned away, not regarding him at all.

Mordred's grey-streaked head was bent over a map of Ferelden laid out on the dirt. Alistair stood above him, providing commentary. "Right," said Alistair, "So we are… here. And the places where we can find allies are… here, here, and here: Orzammar, the Brecilian Forest, and Redcliffe. Oh, and the Circle but you probably already know where that is."

"I do," said the mage, "and I also happen to know where Orzammar, the Brecilian Forest, and Redcliffe are. Just because I was in the Tower doesn't mean I never saw a map."

"Right. Sorry."

"Redcliffe," said Fergus. "Looking for Arl Eamon?"

"Yes," said Mordred, glancing back at Fergus, not looking too pleased about it, as Alistair replied, "He wasn't at Ostagar either; he still has all his men. And I grew up there. And he was Cailan's uncle. He has every right to be furious with Loghain for what happened at the battle at Ostagar."

"Are you trying to convince us or yourself?" asked Fergus. Mordred only half-suppressed a snicker.

Alistair flushed. "I know him. He's a good man, an honorable man."

"Just as Loghain was a good and honorable man?" said Mordred, measuring the distance between Lothering and other locations with a bit of string.

"And Rendon Howe?" Fergus added quietly. "Wasn't he considered good and honorable? My father certainly seemed to think so, even on the eve of his death."

"I'm beginning to doubt the existence of good and honorable men," Morrigan announced, appearing from behind a tree. "Your words are hardly doing wonders for my faith in the greater portion of humanity."

"It is an illness bred by the discontent of one's place in the greater scheme of things," intoned the Qunari quietly, "and I am beginning to feel pity for them."

"I'm not," said Fergus flatly, reaching for the flask of presumed alcohol amongst the provisions beside the campfire.

* * *

_Oriana's maiden surname's epitaph "de Rialto" is a reference to a city on the map of Antiva on the DA Wiki. Rialto is also a bridge in Venice and one that I truly adore. I do owe a lot to the DA Wiki in general, so I figured now is as good a time to credit them as any._

_I plan to start reading The Stolen Throne sometime this month as research of a sort. There are several female role models of rebellion in recent Fereldan history and I want to give Rowan what she's due (even if Eliante and others never hear the whole story)._

_As always, thank you so much for the feedback in your reviews. It's really a gift. Better than my favorite cheese (which is Brie, or St. Andre if I splurge). _


	8. Bookkeeping

**Chapter Eight: Bookkeeping**

Avernus had broken into a completely unexpected bout of laughter. Anders had pouted at this response to his question and, after he, Eliante, and Nathaniel held off the demonic presence as the ancient Warden sealed the gashes in the Fade, had retreated to the citadel's rather impressive library to sulk and/or brood. It was there that Eliante found him later that afternoon.

"Nathaniel and Levi went out to look for the horses," she said by way of announcing her arrival, wrinkling her nose at the stench of neglect and resulting mildew as she surveyed the collection of slowly rotting tomes. "The wagon seems mostly intact; I thought Levi was going to stay on his knees, thanking the Maker and praising Andraste, for the remainder of the entire Dragon Age when he saw that his wares and profits were safe."

"Well, bully for Levi," Anders grumbled, his long nose nearly grazing the page as he scanned a page of cramped notes. "I can't believe that old weasel shut me down like that. Hardly let me get a word out."

"The answer was pretty plain," Eliante pointed out, coming closer to the table the apostate leaned over in his studies. "If a criminal could get himself out of being Conscripted, you'd have Templars and guard-captains all over arguing for the right to get their charges out of Grey Warden recruitment and straightaway onto the gallows. It seems like protection as much as anything to me."

"I'm not a criminal," he replied crossly, slamming shut the ancient journal.

"But you were Conscripted. You didn't volunteer."

"Oh, I volunteered," was the disarmingly cheery reply. "Anything to get out of that damned Circle. It was that charming bastard of a knight-commander that made dear old Duncan have to invoke the Rite."

Eliante huffed a heavy sigh. "You're not making any sense now. Did you want to be a Grey Warden or not?"

"Well, here's the thing and I really hate to admit it because it goes completely against the whole 'I'm not a criminal' argument –even though I'm not a criminal, let's make that clear." Anders took a deep breath. "I was in a cell when Duncan encountered me. Not my favored living conditions; while most people seem to enjoy being kicked in the face to wake up in the morning, I'm just choosy. But you can see why I'd want to get out."

"Why were you in a cell?" Eliante asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Last summer marked my…" He paused, counting on his fingers and then abandoning the tally with a shake of his head. "Well, let's just say that they really ought to give me a bit more credit for my sixth escape attempt. Which I suppose they did by locking me up altogether."

"And Duncan 'encountered' you in this cell."

"You can thank my dear old schoolmate Niall for that. I thought that the only thing in that tower that gave a rat's arse for me was the resident mouser… although now that I think about it, Mr. Wiggums never did like to share his meals. Anyway, Niall seemed to have a drop of humanity –or maybe a twisted, sadistic sense of irony –in him and dropped a hint of my plight to Duncan, who asked the favor of looking over the mages in solitary confinement as potential recruits. Pretty shrewd move on his part; he ended up getting two for one. Although, now that I've jumped ship, he's just about broken even."

"What was the other one doing down there?" she asked, curiosity piqued.

Anders shrugged. "Mordred? Don't really know. He was getting 'escorted' into the happy haven as Duncan was leading me out. Some to-do about an escape attempt; ha, somebody besides me trying for a chance at freedom! Although I'm not quite sure it was Mordred trying to get out; he was a strange fellow but he always seemed rather… complacent with the way things were and he wasn't very chatty on the short sojourn we shared with Duncan. Duncan had to Conscript him too; that pansy-ass Greagoir was even redder in the face about that than he was about me. Bottom line: no idea where he's gotten to, but here I am."

"Here you are," Eliante agreed. "But you're still not answering. Did you want to be a warden or not?"

"Why does it have to be either or?" Anders huffed. "When I first came to the Circle, apprentices chatted up the Grey Wardens like it was some kind of grandiose personal diplomatic immunity from the Templars and everyone else. Turns out that if the Circle of Magi is a menagerie, the Grey Wardens are like a traveling circus; no one is free, not even the mages. Once you're Conscripted or –Maker help you –you've volunteered, you're in it for the rest of your sorry life, come hell or high-water. You think I'm really the type to trade one stagnant cage even for a migrant one?"

"Some people would consider that an improvement."

"Some people," he stressed, "wouldn't understand. Being able to go from one place to another isn't enough, not for me. A pirate I had the pleasure of meeting once put it rather perfectly after hearing my sorry tale: it's not about movement. It's about choices being made for you."

Eliante's eyebrows rose. "A pirate? In Ferelden?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "She was doing some job on Lake Calenhad, I don't know the particulars. Picked me up after I tried to swim to shore from the Tower dock. Much less exciting than I've made it out to be. Point is that I've had done with people making up their mind on my behalf. Mages aren't criminals. We shouldn't be treated like them when we're not."

"Mages are dangerous," she pointed out. "You saw what Avernus did all those years ago; you even called him a blood mage and 'unnatural.' You can't completely condemn the world for taking caution."

"Men are dangerous," he countered, "and women too. Arl Howe killed your family. That was bad, no arguments otherwise here. He was a bad, bad man who did bad, bad things. But would you have all men locked away in stuffy little towers in the middle of lakes on the off-chance they might break in the head and kill their best friend and his family? Or take Nathaniel: if there were more Howes, they'd lock them all up to protect everyone else just because of something one of them did!"

"A thrilling analogy," said a dry voice from somewhere behind Eliante. Soaked with rainwater, Nathaniel dropped the saddlebags he had presumably retrieved from the wagon onto the ground and pushed his dark hair from his face. "But the comparison between my family and mages is simply idiotic. I'm not about to transform into an abomination simply for being a Howe."

"I didn't claim it was perfect…" Anders muttered.

"Being a Howe also doesn't permit me control over your thoughts."

"Kind of missing my point, aren't you?"

"I am not fond of over-simplifications–"

"If I might interrupt," Eliante quickly interjected, "has anyone seen Avernus since we repaired the Veil?"

"I think repairing the Veil exhausted him for the time being," answered Anders, stacking the books on the desk. "Last I saw, he was heading back to his tower. I can't believe that, given a choice of residences, he'd _choose _to stick to living in _yet_ _another _tower."

"And would you just have him go on living there?" questioned Nathaniel. "What do you propose we do with him?"

Eliante looked over at him, surprised. "Why do we have to do anything with him?"

"Yeah," said Anders, looking at Nathaniel too, "why should we do anything to him? He's just been minding his own business up here, free of the Circle, doing his own thing, leaving everyone else alone."

"I suppose you can say he's been minding his own business," said Nathaniel, "if you ignore the tears in the Fade and the armies of walking dead."

"You saw the demons that showed up when he started to seal the Fade," pointed out Eliante. "He barely got out of there alive even with our help."

"Or it was all just a show," said Nathaniel with a shrug. "A man who has been so focused on keeping himself breathing for so long is hardly interested in letting himself get killed by the first set of blades that manage to make it past the undead."

"Or maybe he's exactly what he seems to be," snapped Eliante, glaring. "He's not proud of what he did for Sophia; couldn't you see that? Can't you ever take anything at face value?"

"Can you," he asked, "after what happened at Highever?"

"If I might interrupt," said Anders quickly as Eliante's face blazed crimson in anger, "Avernus didn't do anything for Sophia that wasn't in self-defense."

"You both are seeing what he wants you to see," Nathaniel stressed. "How can you be sure that he isn't just some more-appealing version of that reanimated corpse who tried to strike a bargain with us earlier?"

"Do you know that beyond a reasonable doubt?" Eliante asked, eyes narrowed. "Would you condemn an innocent man on the off-chance he's gotten himself possessed, willingly or not?"

"The Templars would," Anders muttered.

"Well, maybe the Templars have some reason to. If you had seen what I saw in Kirkwall–"

"Well, we didn't," Eliante retorted, trembling with fury. "And this isn't Kirkwall. And don't you ever try to school me about what happened at Highever again."

"No," he agreed. "It's not Kirkwall. Whether or not you let Highever happen again remains to be seen." And with that, he stepped back through the library doorway and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

"Brrrr," said Anders, shivering dramatically at Nathaniel's exit. "Can I have his coat? There's no way he needs it, snow or no snow, with that attitude."

"His attitude?" repeated Eliante, burying her hands beneath her elbows and leaning over the table, still shaking with anger.

"Positively icy," he replied. "And that was a low blow on his part."

"I know," she said, sinking into a moth-eaten chair. "I know," she said again, leaning to brace her forehead against the edge of the table in front of her. "Every time I started to think we're on better footing," she said to the dusty floor, "he does something and we're catapulted back to where we were that night at Highever."

"You pick at him," Anders said offhandedly. "It's not just him; you… well, you just poke at him. A lot. Sorry," he added that last sentiment after a pause.

"How could he not have known?" she asked, more to herself than to Anders. "He shows up claiming that his father's men aren't delayed but says he doesn't know anything else. How can that be? He's not stupid and he _always _obeyed his father, even when we were children. How could he not have known?"

"Well, if he's such a suspect, why keep him around? You just give him a better angle to stab you in the back with, if that is what he's after."

She looked up, bracing her chin on the table's edge. "Because I can count on one hand the number of living people that I'm certain don't wish me dead," she answered. "And Nathaniel Howe has kept me alive enough times that I can't afford to write him off that very, very, very short list. So whatever his motives are, he's not trying to kill me. And my chances of survival right now are better with him than without."

"Well, that's practical bookkeeping if I ever saw it," said the apostate mage with a quick, perhaps forced laugh; Eliante couldn't tell. "Pretty and pragmatic is just about right. But do you really think it's the best solution to lock up all the Howes in a tower because one of them lost his head?"

"Are you really taking his side after what he just said to me?"

"I'm not taking any sides!" Anders said quickly. "I just believe that everyone deserves an equal chance, no matter what happened to them that they couldn't control: Avernus, mages, Howes, even you. You heard what they were saying on the gallows about your family but that shouldn't condemn you along with everyone else."

"There's a difference," Eliante retorted. "Everything they said on those gallows about my parents was a lie; Rendon Howe _did _commit a massacre."

"Alright, alright!" Anders threw up his hands in defeat. "I'm just saying… Wait, no, forget it. I'll just let you continue on with your madcap quest for vengeance and I'll just find a place free of corpses and mold to rest my head."

She watched him leave and wondered what he had stopped himself from saying to her. But she supposed that for the moment, it didn't matter. To distract herself, she crossed the library, gazing around her at the massive chamber. The fading afternoon sunlight filtering through the tall glass windows, splashing elongated illuminated patterns across the stone floor, the tables, and the books that had been left scattered across the polished wood desks, some closed, some open as though awaiting their scholars to return to them at any moment. She reached for a tattered quill feather, its nib buried in a crystal inkwell, its contents a swirled blue-black darkness that refused to release the pen: the ink had dried up long ago.

The library seemed to hover around her as though suspended in the moment before the Grey Wardens had realized that the king's troops were marching on their fortress. She imagined the panic, the adrenaline that had called for even the most bookish wardens to rise from their journals, notes, and tomes and take up arms against the wave that they must have known would overwhelm them, that they must have known would consume them, that they must have known they would lose against. Or had they harbored some foolish hope that their cause for justice would prevail? She wondered what they would give, what any of them would give, to return to that moment and rethink their choice now that they knew there was only defeat awaiting them beyond the library's doors. Would they choose otherwise, given the chance?

Or would they choose to go back for other motives than rescinding their choice? Maybe they would return to that instant in time only to relive the moment before calamity struck, savor the last point in time when they were at peace, when they were calm, when they were happy, when they could fool themselves into believing they could win. The moment where, if they could not change the course of their fate, they could at least make that moment count: accept their father's mandate for them without giving lip, wear the old-fashioned jewelry to please their mother, not mock their sister-in-law for giving their brother a ribbon to wear about his wrist when he went off to war, relented and listened when someone had said "Please."

She couldn't look back. There was too much distance to cover in front of her.

She found a catalogue of maps lying upon on the desk under the window. The map of Highever lands that it was turned to was too faded to read properly, so she turned the page of the atlas and came across a depiction of northern Ferelden and an accompanying chart on the page opposite labeled in a cramped hand: "Deep Roads entrances in Highever, Amaranthine, and surrounding territories."

Someone had taken a pen to the page and marked all over, including a roughly sketched circle at the originally unmarked coordinates of Soldier's Peak. Eliante assumed the additions were from the occasion upon which Soldier's Peak's site had been chosen. But what was more interesting was the carefully labeled entry point to the dwarven-constructed underground at Drake's Fall and, to the east, just south of the coast…

"Vigil's Keep," she said aloud and then glanced over her shoulder, paranoid that someone had born witness to her revelation. But the library was empty save for herself. Quickly, she tore the map in question free of its binding, ignoring the imagined admonishments at her mistreatment of a book that her deceased tutor Aldous would have unleashed upon her.

She reminded herself that Aldous was only deceased because of the actions of Vigil's Keep's lord, the same as everyone else she had cared for at Highever Castle, and her resolve hardened.

* * *

His talents had lent themselves more to the career of assassin than soldier but Nathaniel Howe had never before put them toward the profession they most favored. In contrast, his choice of attire did not cater to the chilly mountain air that the open bridge exposed its travelers to as they crossed the space between the citadel proper and the attached tower; he could only be grateful that the snow lining the cliffs and bluffs around the fortress was merely persistent snowpack as opposed to freshly fallen flakes. Still, the temperature dropped with the sun in the west and Nathaniel found himself shivering as his bare hands, tingling with the chill, wrapped around one of the wrought-iron handles of the massive double-doors to the tower's interior and pulled it open. The rust screamed with the effort; so much for subtlety.

The opening chamber was empty but he could mark the hallmarks of a recent vacancy: the drapes had been pulled shut and, although threadbare, dust had not been allowed to linger in their folds. The vials strewn across a dining table that had been repurposed for alchemy were polished, their contents uncongealed and twinkling jewel-tones in the gold of the sunset that peeked through the gaps between curtain and window-frame. He pressed his thumb against a half-melted taper and found the wax to be soft. The old Warden mage had not fled through some concealed passage immediately upon retreating to the tower as Nathaniel had suspected; he had lingered in these chambers and had only vacated them within the last half-hour at most.

He stepped up to one of the bookcases lining the chamber's walls; he had thought that the library within the main citadel had been impressive, but this little chamber held enough tomes and charts and journals to rival its worth in knowledge. Stacks upon stacks… Nathaniel had never been a bookish sort but he had appreciated secrets from an early age…

"The accumulated research of Grey Warden mages throughout the centuries," said Avernus's voice from behind him. "Elaborated heavily upon by myself throughout the years. As one can imagine, I had to find something with which to occupy my vastly expanded and quite solitary lifetime."

"The demons didn't make for decent company?" Nathaniel asked, not turning around to face the ancient mage only because he had found Avernus's decrepit reflection in a scrying glass hung upon the wall adjacent to the bookcase.

"They left me to my own devices and I left them to theirs," Avernus admitted. "They didn't know quite what to make of me, otherwise I would have joined my fellow Wardens long ago. Blood magic comes from demons; they could counter every bit of lore I possessed or could find in these tomes. But the darkspawn taint, that is alien to them. And it had power."

"And you expect me to believe that Grey Wardens are therefore immune to demonic possession? That's a laugh."

"Not quite a laugh," he remarked wryly in return, "but it would be me claiming knowledge I do not possess myself. And that is something I do not wish to do. Might I ask a question?"

"What makes you think you can't?"

"Your blatant hostility," was the bald reply. "What else? And where exactly that hostility stems from, I wonder."

"Your blatant regard for forbidden magic," was the dry response. "What else?"

Avernus laughed quietly. "Ah. That. Blood magic is forbidden by the Maker himself; did the Maker himself tell you that? Well, _I'll_ tell you one thing: short-sighted men have forbidden my research, not any god. I don't understand why so-called 'enlightened' people should limit themselves so with such an argument."

"Because it's a sound argument."

"It's a stale one, boy. Magic pulls from elements of the Maker-created world; if an elementalist pulls from fire and water and a force mage from sheer energy, why cannot a blood mage pull from life itself?"

"Demons," was Nathaniel's staunch response. "Fire and water don't try and make deals to try and take over the mortal coil."

"Some mages don't accept deals," said Avernus mildly, "or some outwit them. You have such little faith in free-thinking individuals it would seem."

Nathaniel let out a harsh laugh. "I watched plenty of men complacently follow their mad leader in committing the slaughter of innocents not a month ago; I should say I have reason to have doubts."

"Doubts are not terrible things. They lead to questions. Questions lead to understanding. I take it that this 'slaughter of innocents' is the reason why a Howe and a Cousland are mucking about in an ancient fortress with an apostate and a merchant."

"You would be correct," replied Nathaniel, not sounding happy about it.

"Politics?"

"Again, correct," he said, even less pleased.

"Nobles," said Avernus, waving his hand dismissively. "Now _that _was where blood magic was useful."

Now _that _made Nathaniel turn around. "You practiced blood magic on the nobles," he said flatly, not a question but a statement.

The ancient mage shrugged. "Of course we did. To nudge people, to keep our secret safe. What else would you have had us do?"

"Played fair," Nathaniel snarled. "I'm feeling less and less sympathetic to you and your 'noble cause' all the time."

"We used to resources at our disposal, just as the king used his armies to intimidate those that might have lent us aid. All's fair."

"I'm sure your victims would agree," was the sarcastic retort. "Didn't their families notice when their loved ones started behaving uncharacteristically?"

"Did your 'mad man's soldiers?"

The question gave Nathaniel pause. His shoulders slowly relaxed, curling forward in unspoken shame. "No," he finally answered, "and neither did his family. Not even his own son."

Avernus simply watched. "I see," he remarked. "So the Howes turned on the Couslands. I wondered how many centuries that would take to transpire."

"So you saw it coming," said Nathaniel bitterly. "How useful was that?"

"It was many years in the making, but I suppose it took an objective eye to piece it together. I take it you disagreed with your father's actions."

"That would explain why I'm running about with the Cousland heir on her aimless quest to raise a rebellion." Nathaniel sighed heavily. "My father has gone mad, yes, whether it stems from ambition or…"

"…or something more sinister," Avernus finished smoothly. "I see."

"And could it be that?" Nathaniel asked, something almost desperate in his voice. "Could it be something else toying between his ears at the employ of another noble or the Orlesians maybe or…? Could it be magic that has driven him mad?"

"There are many causes for madness," replied the ancient mage, "but there could also be less insane reasons that are behind your father's actions. I am no Templar, not some bumbling fool in armor pretending to be familiar with such things. Besides, you're no child. You can make your own judgment."

"I never said I couldn't," retorted the young noble curtly.

Avernus answered with a smile bordering on a smirk. "There are few that would admit such deficiencies."

"I know little of magic. There are no mages amongst the Howes."

"And yet you were so quick to condemn me as though you knew better."

"I know that what you are is unnatural."

"And that is for you to judge?"

"It should be for the Grey Wardens to choose," Nathaniel decided, "wherever they are."

Avernus's smile turned wholly into a smirk. "Well, then I look forward to seeing my fellow Wardens. Whenever they make the time to seek me out in this lonely place."

"But I have a condition," he said firmly.

"I am eager to hear it."

"No more demons."

"For someone who is neither Templar nor Circle mage, you have a strong bias against the concept, don't you?"

"I have a strong aversion against the reality," Nathaniel told him. "Besides, what were the Grey Wardens doing, fostering blood mages in their ranks?"

"You act as though the Circle isn't swarming with them already. I believe that one day the Chantry and the Templars will have a very shocking revelation as to the truth of how their perfect little system works. As for the Grey Wardens…" He smiled sardonically. "Well, it is said that we accept aid against the darkspawn wherever it is offered."

Nathaniel snorted in derision. "How vaguely put. Clever."

"Indeed," Avernus's smile widened slightly.

"But not from politics."

"If only that were the truth," the ancient mage observed ruefully. "Alas, it is not so."

"Someone should do something about that," muttered Nathaniel, turning toward the door. "It's not right."

"You may find that what's 'right' rarely gets the job done," were Avernus's parting words as the young noble left the tower.

* * *

_Some dialogue purloined from Awakenings and the Soldier's Peak DLC. Avernus and the Wardens using blood magic on the nobles is apparently a canon fact. It mildly surprised me, and I had the same reaction as Nathaniel: sympathy decreasing rapidly._

_As always, thank you so much to my reviewers. You all are the best. :)_


	9. The High Road

**Chapter Nine: The High Road**

Eliante, Nathaniel, and Anders parted ways with Levi at the foot of the peaks, the merchant promising to turn his impressively sized family's eyes toward reconnaissance for the Cousland cause. Bidding farewell, the young nobles and apostate turned their horses' heads south, towards the River Dane and into the northern reaches of the Bannorn.

Nathaniel and Eliante said little to each other, the latter still smarting from words exchanged at the old fortress, the former lost in thought. Undisclosed revelations weighed heavily on the both of them; Eliante felt the burden of the maps folded inside of her jacket, Nathaniel: Avernus's musings. Even Anders was quiet, riding behind Eliante on her stolen mare. It was unclear whether the cause of his stillness was his riding companions' silence; he might still harbor secrets of his own.

Across the greater length of Lake Calenhad, another band of disjointed individuals, only similar in their desperate cause, came down from the mountains that surrounded the fishing village of Redcliffe. Considerably wearier than the hunted nobles in the north –they had had little choice than to travel by foot after all –their silence during the journey was more to be expected, although Fergus suspected it stemmed more from the fact that they had little in common and little to say to one another than it did communal exhaustion.

The two Grey Wardens and those that had chosen to follow them to the Guerrins' domain at Redcliffe had walked single file for the majority of the four days' journey, although not by direct choice or preference. It had been determined that it would be best if they kept off of the main roads and throughways, which meant restricting their movements to the smaller footpaths that circled the open fields of the Bannorn and later ringed the cliffs that sloped down to the southern shores of Lake Calenhad. But while introversion had become habit out of necessity due to the narrow pathways, Fergus doubted whether if, given the chance, any of them really had anything to say to one another.

Of course, he was basing these deductions off of his own unwillingness to communicate with anything save monosyllabic expressions of agreement and dissent when a question was posed to him. Beyond that, any inquiries were answered with grunts and shrugs. His course was laid out before him. He had to reach Redcliffe and Arl Eamon. The Grey Wardens could do as they pleased at that point in time and it seemed clear that they wished to raise his support against Loghain and then the Blight itself. That was all very well and good. At this moment, Fergus wished little part in their quest, but traveling with them was a means to an end. It was also a way to keep an eye on Maric's bastard and Mordred's influence.

The Grey Warden mage retreated between the trees as the party set down their burdens and struck camp at sunset. Some moments later, Morrigan rose from the crackling flames she had lit at the clearing's center, her lithe body unfolding with inhuman-like grace, skin as pale as a taper on the Chantry alter in the fading twilight, and disappeared into the forest as well. Fergus watched as her shadow dissolved amongst those of the trees, taking quiet note.

Alistair caught Fergus's eye and commented, "It helps that we have mages to set up wards around camp. Makes me feel better if I accidentally doze off on watch."

"I'm sure that's all that's going on," replied Fergus dryly and Leliana laughed from somewhere behind him as she set up her bedroll. The young lay sister seemed to have recovered her spirits and appeared to hold little grudge against him for their conversation outside Lothering. Still, rather than feeling rewarded by the sound of her giggling, Fergus only felt a twinge of irritation at the levity.

"How far to Redcliffe and this Arl Eamon?" the Qunari –Sten, Fergus had heard Mordred call him –asked, violet eyes scanning the perimeter with an intensity that made Fergus uneasy.

"Oh," Alistair blinked at the direct address; Sten spoke little and, when he did, it was to Mordred alone. "Well, let's see. We were at Lothering and it took us this many days to…"

"Another day, give or take," Fergus answered. When the others looked at him, he added, "Teagan and I did the trek from Highever to Redcliffe along the River Dane once. We came by this way."

"On foot?" A crease crossed Leliana's forehead. "Why? Horses are so much more fun."

"And more expedient," intoned Sten.

Fergus shrugged. "I wanted to see where my father fought the Orlesians, the way he saw it. And Teagan loves the land here."

"That's right," Alistair agreed with a nod. "He hates going to court. Hates it, hates it, hates it." Fergus allowed himself a small smile at the truth of the statement.

"Was this man at Ostagar?" Sten asked.

"Um," Alistair looked to Fergus.

"I didn't see him," he said with a shrug. "But I wasn't there for very long. I didn't see Mordred arrive either but apparently there he was."

"So this is a man who, after seeing that his country was in grave danger in the south, did not rise to its defense? And now we go to his brother for assistance, who also did not stand at Ostagar." Sten did not sound pleased. "Hmm."

Alistair flushed and, predictably, rose to the Guerrins' defense. "Arl Eamon was going to Ostagar," he protested. "He just needed more time and Cailan didn't want to wait any longer."

"Was not your Howe also delayed?" said the Qunari to Fergus.

He shrugged. "Lots of that going on, it seems."

"I see. Hmm." He still did not sound pleased, but neither was Fergus for that matter.

"So Arl Eamon raised you at Redcliffe?" inquired Leliana, sinking down near the fire beside Alistair, the flames flickering in the sheen of her coppery hair.

"Did I say that? I meant that I was raised by dogs: giant, slobbering dogs, from the Anderfels."

Leliana laughed softly, disarmingly. Fergus, realizing what she was up to, shot her a look. She ignored him. "That must have been so difficult for them. I cannot imagine."

"Well, you see, these were flying dogs…"

The conversation between the absentee lay sister and the former Templar continued as such for some time. Turning away, Fergus looked for someone to roll his eyes at but only found Sten for company and did not think the Qunari would have the looked-for reaction of commiseration. He found his own reflection in the iron plate-armor they had peeled off of a once prosperous but now dead bandit, but decided that it was hardly worth rolling his eyes at himself.

"…The truth is that Arl Eamon did raise me." Fergus's ears picked this phrase up and he shook himself out of staring into space to start paying attention again. "And he was good to me, even when he didn't have to be."

Fergus stifled a snort of disbelief; what noble wouldn't have to be good to the king's son, illegitimate or otherwise? But Leliana nodded, apparently taking this all very seriously. "The world is full of kind, generous people. One must always remember that, especially when one is confronted constantly with the presence of the bad and greedy, as we are. Your Arl Eamon seems a kind man, just as my Lady Cecilie was. She was an Orlesian lady. My mother served her until she died."

"Follow that up with a story of how she then tossed you to the Chantry," said Alistair with a bitter smile, "and I'll back around slowly, kind of creeped out."

"No," Leliana seemed puzzled. "Lady Cecilie let me stay, instead of turning me out on the street. Or to the Chantry, which I suppose she could have done. I take it that it was different for you, no?"

"Packed away to the nearest monastery by age ten," he answered cheerfully. A crease crossed Fergus's brow at this revelation. He had wondered how Maric's bastard ended up a Templar, but no one had ever mentioned Arl Eamon sending him off. He couldn't imagine Maric being a fan of that plan, especially with having only one legitimate son to his name…

"But I don't blame him," Alistair continued, "not anymore anyway. I mean, before, when I was first there, I hated it there and blamed him for everything but in retrospect…"

"You were young," said Leliana, voice warm and sympathetic, hand reaching out to pat his elbow gently in reassurance.

"And raised by dogs," added Alistair, perking up again, "or I might as well have been. And, before you ask, no. My father was not Arl Eamon, although the arlessa may have thought otherwise."

"But you know your parentage?"

Fergus waited for the answer to this query, very alert. After a long silence, Alistair only said, "Let's just say that I'm the son of an indiscreet man and a woman who was dazzled by what he didn't deserve. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

* * *

They had drawn lots and Anders won first watch. Eliante snuffed out the smoldering remnants of their cooking fire with the sole of her boot as Nathaniel checked to see that the horses were still tied up securely to the branches of a fallen tree. Even from a distance, she marked the way he smoothed his hand across his horse's neck, presumably murmuring some sentiment or another. She remembered that she had first encountered him out in the stables of Vigil's Keep, before their parents had facilitated a proper introduction. She remembered thinking that someone who was so kind to animals simply had to possess the same compassion for people. And honor; the second thing that had struck her about Nathaniel Howe, even when he was only thirteen and she seven, was his sense of honor and duty to his family.

She undid her bedroll and spread it out on the ground, keeping a safe distance from Hunter's frantic pawing at the loose earth beside a stray log. She sat down, leaned forward, and began to undo the laces on her right boot. She watched as he lay out his own bedding some short distance from her, across the stamped-out embers. She opened her mouth to say something.

He sat down and lay flat on his back without removing his boots or cloak. After a moment, he rolled over, turning his back to her. She close her mouth, sentiment dying in her throat, kicked off her other boot, and lay back, rolling over as well, turning her back on him.

* * *

Mordred and Morrigan were asleep on completely opposite sides of camp. After their dual disappearance earlier, the sight of such detachment made Fergus raise an eyebrow as he rose to relieve Alistair of watch duty. Of course, Morrigan was as far away as she could possibly get from everyone else, so it might just be her inclination, if that was what was going on between them. Then again, he could be completely wrong and those were just extremely complicated wards that had to be set up out in the forest.

The sun was barely peaking over the eastern edge of Lake Calenhad. Looking north, Fergus thought he might espy the thin pinnacle of the Circle Tower, far in the distance. Hazy mist drifted up from the water, tendrils curling around the trees: a low-lying cloud that had not yet been burned through by the late summer sun. And there was Alistair, perched on a stump, elbows braced against his knees. The ex-Templar glanced up at the crackle of twigs and debris beneath Fergus's throat; he greeted his traveling companion with a nod followed by a yawn. "Morning always comes too quickly for my taste," he remarked.

Fergus shrugged. "By the end of today's travel, we should have ourselves proper beds and a roof over our heads. Morning couldn't come quickly enough after so many nights on the ground."

"Point," he yawned again, "taken. Still time enough for me to get a few winks of sleep. Think Leliana said she was making breakfast today. See you in a few hours."

He started to get up. Fergus lifted a hand to stop him. He stopped, half-way to standing, blinking, confused. Fergus tried to smile but only managed a grimace. "Let's have a talk, you and I."

Slowly, Alistair sank back down against the stump. "Great," he muttered. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

The young nobleman settled himself against the tree trunk formerly joined to the stump. "You shouldn't," he replied easily. "I'll be completely up front with you: I just want to understand a thing or two."

"Like what?" Alistair's eyes narrowed.

"Like how Maric's bastard ended up first in the Chantry and then as a Grey Warden," he smiled genuinely if not a bit sardonically, "for example."

Alistair's entire stance tensed. "Well, that's presuming a lot."

"Such as?"

"Such as that playing at politics was ever supposed to be in the cards for Maric's bastard," he retorted. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that sending said bastard to the Chantry was an attempt to remove it from the cards for once and for all, as was the Grey Warden thing. Shame it didn't work out so well."

"If said bastard keeps pretending he isn't sitting right here," Fergus countered, "he's going to earn himself the title of royal bastard. Which technically he is anyway."

He laughed suddenly, sincerely. "I guess I should use that line more often," he admitted. "I guess I also should have figured that a Cousland would be in the know when it came to little old me. Arlessa Isolde used to complain that between Teyrn Cousland and Arl Howe, the north had its little fingers in every pie in Ferelden."

"And I guess all those pies worked pretty decently for Howe," Fergus replied bitterly. "Who else knows?"

"Arl Eamon, maybe Bann Teagan. And I guess Loghain would," Alistair shrugged. "He was King Maric's best friend. I don't see why he wouldn't."

"I meant amongst more immediate company."

"Oh, you mean Mordred and Morrigan and all of them. No, I haven't exactly volunteered the information. Why? Do you think I should tell them?"

"No!" It was all Fergus could do to keep himself from outright shouting the word out. Tempering his emotions, he continued, "I think it would be better if you didn't. Keep the majority of the Grey Wardens out of it. They aren't supposed to be sticking their noses into politics regardless."

"You're right," Alistair conceded. "They're not. But I'm figuring that the issue is going to come up anyway, given that we're going to Arl Eamon for help and Cailan's dead and, as much as I don't want to think about it, I guess I'm… Well… I'm the last Theirin."

Fergus chuckled. "Don't be silly. My family's got as much Theirin blood as anybody. So do the Howes and the Kendells and pretty much the majority of the noble houses in Ferelden. The only one whose bloodlines are questionable are the Mac Tirs and, given the amount of time kings spend on the wrong side of the sheets, I wouldn't be shocked to find out that Anora's got some somewhere. So don't fuss about it. If it comes up, it comes up and we can deal with it then."

"Right," Alistair sighed. "Somehow, that seems very similar to the old plan."

"The old plan?"

"_My_ old plan," Alistair offered up a slightly ironic smile. "Pretend that it's just going to go away somehow."

"I see," Fergus laughed again. "No royal ambitions to speak of?"

"According to you, I've already got the royal bastard thing down. And, truth be told, I hope that's as royal as I'm going to get. I'm not king material and I have no qualms admitting it."

"And yet admitting it probably makes you nobler than half the Landsmeet," replied Fergus, still grinning, "or just a lying politician. Shame, that is."

"Isn't it?" Alistair grinned back, rising from the stump and walking back toward camp proper.

Fergus let him go. The young Grey Warden appeared relieved not to be called back again, he noted with a wry smile. At present circumstances, Alistair could hardly be blamed for his trepidation; Ferelden's politics were a mess even at the best of times and this year's Landsmeet was promising to be considerably less than ideal. Alistair seemed a kind man with a tactically blessed eye for discretion, whether he realized it or not; these were perhaps ideal qualities for a monarch. However, he seemed very much a frightened man when confronted with his heritage and perhaps he could not be blamed for that either. All in all, Fergus held no animosity toward the Grey Warden; rather he felt a strange pitying fondness.

Yet, his own natural suspicions, fostered by recent experiences, rose up at the unexpected liking of Maric's bastard and long ignored words of his old nurse Nan were conjured to the forefront of his mind. If his sister had had to be lectured on the tale of Harharku again and again in an attempt to douse her overreaching pride, it was the story of a farmer and viper that frequented Fergus's bedtime hour as a child. At the mere memory, he shuddered, remembering nightmares of snakes slipping into the warmth of his bed after Nan vacated the premises.

He reminded himself that the only reason the idiot farmer was bitten was because he had invited the viper into his coat out of misguided pity. The son of Bryce Cousland would not be one to make such a foolish mistake.

* * *

She had the last watch that night. Soft in step, she approached Nathaniel and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He glanced at her without deigning to turn his head in acknowledgement. She reached into her jacket, the movement concealed by the night, curled her fingers around the worn parchment, but he was already walking away. He didn't speak to her. He didn't look at her. Her fingers released the maps, letting them rest where they may and awaited the dawn alone.

* * *

Smoke rose from Redcliffe village. That could not be a good sign.

Leaving Sten as watchman to the camp on the cliff above, Fergus, Mordred, Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana trekked down the steep path, hardly itching for a fight but armed all the same. It was probably a good thing; from the panicked expression of the young man running up the slope from the castle gates to meet them, Fergus could guess that there was trouble.

Alistair blinked as the man came closer. "Tomas?"

Tomas blinked. "Alistair? Never thought I'd see you again."

"Friend of yours?" asked Mordred, looking to Alistair.

"We… we were in the stables together when we were children. Tomas is Bann Teagan's squire; what in the blazes are you doing here? Didn't you go down to Ostagar?"

"We… We were heading south to meet the army, but we turned back when we heard about the battle and… and Cailan," recounted Tomas, breathless from the sprint up the hill. "My lord Teagan rode on to Denerim to find the Queen before the word of mouth spread and we went back towards Rainesfere. And then the messengers caught up with us about the Arl's sickness and then the attacks; I suppose it was a good thing we were on our way home when we were."

"Arl Eamon is sick?" questioned Fergus, stepping forward, deliberately taking charge of things before Mordred could.

Tomas's eyes widened. "My lord Cousland?" From his expression, Fergus could guess that word of his family's 'betrayal' had spread to these parts and the thought made his blood boil. "Maybe… maybe you'd better just go straight to Bann Teagan. This way; I can take you down through the village… or what's left of it."

Mordred's expression was tight when Fergus cared to glance in the mage's direction. He raised an eyebrow at the warden, resisting the urge to smirk as Mordred shrugged an assent. The self-appointed Grey Warden-Commander of Ferelden stepped into line behind the young Cousland, ready to follow Tomas down the path behind Fergus and Alistair, but something in those green-grey eyes was cold and narrow, like a snake's gaze. It told him that Mordred's acquiescence would be limited to begin with and temporary in the end.

The pervading sense of desperation drowned out even the cloying heat that so often marked the latter weeks of Kingsway as the small company made its way through the fishing village and to the Chantry at its heart. The inhabitants were loath to meet the strangers' eyes, young and old alike keeping their gazes trained on the barricades they were rebuilding or the armor they were re-patching. Even children, who usually were quick to look and watch and quick to question, were cowed and hesitant, the youngest mute and wide-eyed, enwrapped within the folds of their mothers' skirts, the more mature tentative and cautious, picking up blades and bows for what might be the first occasion in their lives.

But many of the villagers, men and women, soldiers and civilians, appeared to be beyond desperation. Alarmingly, some of them appeared to be merely resigned to their fate and with a sense of inevitability that made Fergus doubt that these attacks were orchestrated by mere bandits. Of course, the heat wasn't helping morale either.

Their shadows darkened the Chantry's doorstep, the doors were pushed ajar for their entrance, and Fergus entered his own personal definition of Hell:

The main room of the chapel was top full of weeping women.

To Fergus's left, Alistair winced at the sound and sight. Morrigan rolled her eyes and sniffed. Leliana's lips parted beseechingly in surprise and then compassion, murmuring some cliché or another of sympathy. Mordred was unmoved.

They found Teagan close to the pulpit, crouched on the steps, the right leg of his pants rolled up above the knee and his hands prodding at a scab that had barely begun to form along the outer edge of his knee. The bann glanced up at the new arrivals. "Tomas, Ser Perth is still asking for someone to speak to Mother Hannah about protection and she's now refusing to listen to anything I have to say on the… Fergus? Fergus Cousland? It _is _you! What in the blazes are you doing here?"

"That's a good question," replied Fergus dryly, "especially when someone went to all of the trouble of hiring assassins to make sure I wasn't."

Teagan's initial broad smile at seeing his old friend –the grin that had so often charmed enough women that the bann's bed was hardly empty, or so Fergus remembered –faded. "Howe. It must have been."

"So I figured, when I heard about what happened at Highever. So where is the bastard? Is he lording over my family home? Hiding at Vigil's Keep?"

"Howe?" The smile faded further. "He's in Denerim, Fergus. I last saw him at the royal palace, standing at Teyrn Loghain's left hand on the balcony with the queen."

"Another traitor," said Alistair sourly, stepping up. "I'm not sure you remember me, Bann Teagan. Last time we spoke, I was much younger… and covered in mud."

Tomas snickered, presumably at a memory. Teagan blinked. "Alistair? Well, this is a good day for finding old friends. I thought all of the Grey Wardens–"

"–perished at Ostagar," Mordred interposed smoothly, stepping up. "That seems to be the popular opinion."

"Loghain's doing, no doubt," agreed Teagan darkly. "And you would be…?"

"Mordred Amell," was the answer, "Warden-Commander. And these are some of those counted amongst our Grey Warden allies: Morrigan and Leliana."

Teagan's smile returned somewhat; beautiful women always brightened his day. "Welcome to you all. I wish we could be more hospitable to Grey Wardens and those that would stand against the self-proclaimed regent, but Redcliffe is in dire straits. We have little aid to offer at this time. I wish it wasn't the case."

"What do you mean?" Alistair demanded. "We saw the state of the village; what's really going on?"

Tomas and Teagan exchanged a significant look. The latter cleared his throat. "Let's retire to the Chantry library. There, we can discuss what's happened at Redcliffe since Ostagar. And, afterward, perhaps we will speak of what's happening in Denerim."

Moments later, they all found themselves situated in the miniature archive within the right wing of the Chantry building, Tomas remaining in the hallway to discourage eavesdroppers. Morrigan leaned against a bookshelf with folded arms and boneless grace behind the stiff chair Mordred took for himself while Leliana situated herself in a perch upon a folding ladder, slender fingers curled around the wooden railing as an anchor. Alistair settled to the ground at the ladder's base, watching.

Fergus was leaning against the wall beside the door, watching Teagan and deciding how best to broach the topic when Mordred beat him to the punch. "Your squire mentioned that the Arl was sick," said the mage, his quiet tone commanding attention without the impoliteness of a demand in it. "How has this come about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, commander," was the reply. "No one has been able to reach the castle and return to report and we cannot afford to send any more men on suicide runs at this point."

"And no one has come out of the castle?" was Mordred's next query.

"Not since the arlessa sent the last of the knights out on that madcap quest for Andraste's ashes, no. And that was before…" Teagan paused.

Mordred caught the hesitation. "Before what?"

"We can't help you unless you tell us what's really going on, Teagan," said Fergus. "Maker knows we're not going to go telling on you to the Arl or to the Queen or regent or whoever is in charge of this hell-bent country now."

Teagan laughed darkly. "Hell-bent doesn't so far off now," he agreed with a ghost of a smile. "After all, it's the walking dead that attack our village night after night."

"Corporal or incorporeal?" asked Mordred, an academic quality to the question, while Fergus merely stared, trying to comprehend the presence of the living dead in modern times. Perched upon the step-ladder, Leliana shuddered, the storyteller no doubt delightedly terrified at the fabled connotations.

"If you stab them, they bleed," replied Teagan with a shrug. "We're not sure _what _they bleed, but bleed they do. And eventually they can be defeated. But at our current strength, we are hopelessly outmatched. It had been the same attacks night after night coming down from the castle and while our forces are picked off, theirs only seem to swell with each sunset." He cast a quick glance at the closed door before continuing: "I fear that this night will be our last."

"This cannot continue!" Alistair burst out, getting to his feet. "We have to stop these things and figure out what's going on in that castle."

"I see no reason why we should," retorted Morrigan from behind Mordred's chair. "Unless these are darkspawn and these people fool enough to mistake them for the undead, we have no reason to linger and risk our lives for these fools."

"We need the Arl's help," Alistair objected.

"Do we? Is he the only fish in the sea of your Fereldan nobility?"

"We cannot simply abandon these people to these monsters!" exclaimed Leliana. "How can you be so heartless, Morrigan?"

"Quite easily, it seems," muttered Alistair.

Fergus extended his hand toward Teagan with a grim smile. "From all accounts, I lost my family and my home to tragedy," he said. "I will do everything in my power to make sure the same does not happen to yours. I stand with you."

"And I," declared Leliana, sliding down the ladder to her feet.

"And Redcliffe will be beholden to the Couslands," replied Teagan, taking Fergus's grip firmly. "As am I, to both of you."

Mordred had said nothing yet. Finally, rising to his feet, he said calmly, "Morrigan is right that there is no Blight here."

"And does the Warden-Commander agree that we should leave things as they are here?" asked Fergus, narrowing his eyes as he released Teagan's hand.

Mordred looked at Fergus. Fergus looked back. A moment passed. _Warden-Commander my foot, _communicated Fergus to Mordred in that moment with that look and that question. _You know that Alistair is the senior Warden here and he's acquiescing for you to wave that title around. You know it and I know it, and you also know that I can call you out on it, reveal that you're were the most junior Grey Warden in all of Ferelden at the time of Ostagar, and Teagan will take my word over yours._

He acknowledged this but Fergus didn't believe for a second that he was pleased about it. "The Warden-Commander thinks that there is no way that an army of the undead will help defend against the Blight," he said. "We'll stand with you on the condition that your army of men and your brother's do otherwise."

"You have it," replied Teagan, releasing a held-in breath of air. "When we reach the castle and Eamon is well, we will stand with you, against Loghain and the Blight."

With a roll of her golden eyes, Morrigan swept from the library. After a moment, Mordred looked to the door as well. "I will ready my people," he said. "I suggest you do the same." And with that, he departed, Alistair in tow.

Leliana smiled blindingly, first at Teagan, then at Fergus, before bidding her own farewell and gliding into the hallway, an enchanted Tomas following close behind. With their departure, Teagan's shoulders collapsed and the tall man seemed to fold in on himself. "I cannot express what a relief it is that you came when you did," he confessed to Fergus, "and that you travel in such… august company, unwilling as they initially seemed to linger."

Fergus snorted. "You call them 'august;' _I _would point out that I have nearly as much credibility as Warden-Commander as that mage."

"What do you mean?"

"You were just honored by the presence of Ferelden's most junior Grey Wardens," was the sardonic reply. "Thrilling, wasn't it?"

"If they escaped Ostagar, they're fine fighters and at the moment, that's enough for me," replied Teagan. "And one of them is our Alistair. He can be counted upon. I can't speak for the other ones, although the Orlesian girl seems good-natured enough. The other…"

"She's a breed unto herself," said Fergus with a shrug. "Powerful most like, but not the most sympathetic ear within a mile. How bad is it really?"

"It's terrible, really," was the bleak answer. "And such stupid things have happened. I've done such stupid things… and the arlessa…"

"Oh, come on, Teagan," interrupted Fergus, trying to lighten the mood. "Nobody believes those rumors and, even so, no one cares."

"I wish times were so simple that a scandal would be the most of my worries. I'm afraid it isn't so. But we will find the truth when we enter the castle in the morning. If we make it to morning." Teagan hesitated. "I am truly sorry about Oriana and the others."

"Save it," Fergus said quickly. "In truth, I'm trying not to think about it. Keeps me from wanting to punch every wall I see."

"Is that working?"

"No," he answered immediately, "but who really expected it to? Still, my body-count of walls with holes in them is surprisingly low. I'm almost proud of myself."

* * *

_I figured that Teagan and Fergus were close enough in age that eventually they would become friends. Teagan is in this strange position where he doesn't seem old enough to be in the generation of Arl Eamon, Loghain, Maric, Bryce, and Howe but we know he's older than Cailan and Anora (yet unmarried. Gasp!) Personally, I prefer to think of him as being less than a decade older than Fergus and Nathaniel, both of which are in their late twenties (since it was confirmed that Nathaniel is 30 as of Awakenings and we know Fergus has a son that seems to be between the ages of five and eight)._

_Just about everyone who would know what rank the Warden is within the Grey Warden order died at Ostagar. All that's left in the know are Loghain, Alistair, Wynne (presuming the Warden spoke with her before the battle), Flemeth, and those that are told. Of course, in an Amell's case, I'll bet that just about the entire Circle heard about their recruitment. Regardless, people like Teagan and Eamon aren't in the know and Mordred intends to keep it that way. Youth and inexperience don't lend themselves to credibility, I'm afraid._

'_The Farmer and the Viper' is one of Aesop's Fables, made popular in the medieval era. Ironically, I first encountered it in reading a memoir of the Cultural Revolution in China; I was never one for moral stories (except fairy tales) and thus my Book of Virtues from childhood's spine remains unbroken._

_The next chapter will shed light on many things._

_Reviews and feedback appreciated as always. _


	10. Game Change

_Early again but I'm moving and am not sure when internet will be available at my new residence. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Game Change**

_From the correspondence of Berwick, an elven archer in Lloyd's tavern:_

_We need your eyes and ears in Redcliffe. Stay in the village, keep your head down, and watch the castle. Report any changes, and you'll be well paid. _

* * *

After some persuasion on Eliante's part and much swearing on Nathaniel's, Anders had complainingly agreed to abandon his mage's robes in favor of a set of Nathaniel's clothes. "It's not fair," he had griped. "There's nothing _wrong _with being a mage."

"If you were here on your own, you'd have my blessing to try explaining how there's nothing wrong with a mage _outside of the tower _to Bann Loren," Nathaniel had retorted, "but you're not."

Eliante had looked on, only partially amused and mostly annoyed. At this point, she was beginning to find it more tedious than anything else, these miniature battles that her two male companions fought, especially when one of them had done everything in his power to deny her presence in the last few days of travel. The silence had hardly helped to heal the wounds, old and new. She tried to simply push it behind her, focus on the vision of a proper bath and a proper bed at Bann Loren's estate. And answers. Those too.

Yet trying to convince herself of such things only made her recall the old argument between her mother and Nan, that you could not simply settle for covering up the cracks in the floor with rushes as a long-term solution.

But as she buried her uneasiness about Nathaniel beneath the prospect of meeting Bann Loren at his home, entire new doubts took its place. Did the bann know of his wife and son's deaths, or was she to be the harbinger of bad news? Worrying over that just brought the memory of the guest room, of the blood, of Landra's smashed-in skull, the blood dripping from the bedframe… It was better to think of Nathaniel.

It was as though she had to continuously cheat just to keep the game moving forward.

Bann Loren had been at Ostagar, she reflected as they rode through the small hamlet that surrounded the castle, when the thought of showing the Deep Roads maps to Nathaniel and revealing her aims concerning their purpose became just too heavy. If he had returned early –and they had seen many soldiers on the road, although they had not dared to stop and question them –he would know perhaps of Fergus and whether her brother had even reached the south. Moreover, he would have no love for Howe when he learned of Landra and Dairren and the fate that had befallen all of the residents of Highever Castle save two, excluding the villain in question and his men.

She had nothing to fear from Bann Loren save perhaps the anger that would borne out of despair, and that should not even be directed towards her. This was a good plan, far sounder than trekking all of the way out to Denerim. Besides, Denerim would mean justice and that was something Nathaniel did not seem to understand she did not want for Arl Howe… although she caught herself wondering if she really did want him to understand. And if she didn't, what did that mean?

If their places were swapped and it was Eliante's adored father who Nathaniel wanted dead, would she not want to understand if not fight for justice for her father? Didn't he deserve to understand as she felt she would deserve to in this alternate scenario?

She felt like she was cheating again.

In the evening's fading light, the people of the hamlet of Lakeside were whispering. Their eyes were wary as the small party of unassuming fugitives, disguised nobles and an apostate, rode past along the pockmarked road toward the diminutive keep. Eliante could not help but mark that these did not seem to be people who had just received news of a successful battle and recently welcomed the returning soldiers home. Had Howe's influence extended this far west or was it something else?

She was not the only one put ill at ease by this joyless reception. Seated behind her on the mare, Anders muttered, just loud enough for her ears, "You'd find more cheer at a funeral. And at least there, there'd be drinking."

Half-way to the keep, a silver-haired man with a crooked back stepped up to the roadside and spat in Eliante's path. "Damned deserters," he swore. "Find another town to plague. We've enough of your kind here already."

Pulling at the reins to bring her mare to a halt, she looked down at him. "We're not deserters," she said, more confused than insulted.

"We came from the north," Anders added. "That would explain why we're on the North Road, wouldn't it?"

Nathaniel brought his horse up beside Eliante's. Grey eyes fixed on the commoner, he said, "We're here to see your lord, Bann Loren. Is he here or are you wasting our time?"

The man spat again, this time closer to Nathaniel's horse's hooves. "Aye," he agreed sourly. "Bloody coward, like the rest of them, scuttling home in a terror."

"Mind your tongue," Nathaniel retorted sharply. "He's your liege. You owe him as much respect in voice as King Cailan."

The man laughed: the sound a harsh bark. "King's dead," he snorted contemptuously. "And for all the good our lord's done us over the years, he might as well be too. All hail the regent, Teyrn Loghain," he added, mocking.

"Dead?" Eliante repeated, disbelieving, but Nathaniel caught her arm before she could speak further.

"Waste of our time," he said. "We'd be better off at the keep, now." And with those words spoken, he spurred his horse onward, moving fast up the hill and through the remainder of the town, the beginnings of the last of the late summer storms darkening his hair and the cape about his shoulders.

Eliante followed suit, kicking lightly at Dancer's sides to urge the mare forward, but not before the man at the roadside spoke again. "The world is changing," he shouted out and the words seemed to carry up with the wind to bite at her horse's heels. "The day a common-born man becomes regent of Ferelden is the day nothing will be the same."

She and Anders caught up to Nathaniel at the castle gates. "Don't listen to that fool," said the young noble shortly. "I'll believe Cailan is dead when I hear it from Teyrn Loghain himself. He would never let anything happen to King Maric's precious prince; my father always said…"

Her hands tightened around the reins even as Nathaniel's voice faltered but she made herself speak. "He always said that he thought as much of the king as the king thought at all," she finished, not sure if that was what he had been about to say but it was accurate enough.

"He said that too," was the reply after a long silence.

Behind her, Anders heaved a sigh. "Can we get out of this blasted rain?" he complained, turning his fair face to stare up at the heavy clouds. "I'm a cat person; I don't like getting wet."

"There is no correlation between being a 'cat person' and disliking the rain," said Nathaniel, also cross. "Unless you mean to imply that you are in fact a cat. You're certainly moody enough for the part."

"If I'm a cat and I'm moody, it's for a good reason. Like that someone made me get rid of my nice comfy robes and stuff my tail into a pair of too tight trousers."

Eliante turned around as best she could to stare at Anders in disbelief. "You're hardly larger than he is," she pointed out. "All of those years inside hardly did you any good for gaining muscle, seems like."

"You assume I'm referring to sheer bulk, dear lady," the apostate answered with a wink. "There are other–"

"Oh, look: the guard," Nathaniel announced as a disheveled female soldier made her way across the courtyard to them. Eliante turned her attention his way as Anders sighed again.

"Guard-Captain Mathias," said the woman by way of introduction, gruff and direct in manner. "Do you folk have business here? If not, I suggest you move on. The lord's just returned from Ostagar yesterday morn and he is… hardly in a mood to entertain passerby."

"What's happened?" asked Eliante.

"Well, in confidence, between his son not ever showing up at Ostagar and his wife not being here when he returned–"

"No," she interjected. "I mean, what happened at Ostagar?"

Captain Mathias's blonde eyebrows knitted in puzzlement and slight suspicion. "I thought everybody knew," she said. "What business do you have here?"

"Our business is for your lord's ears and his alone," Nathaniel cut in. "It regards his wife and son, if that's slightly more persuasive."

"And you could just be saying that, considering I just told you all about it. State your business or be gone. I will not say it again."

Eliante sighed softly and pushed the hood from her hair. "You probably don't recognize me," she admitted, hyper-conscious of the dirt of the road on her face and the snarls in her hair, "but I was here at Lady Landra's spring saloon with my mother, Eleanor Cousland."

Beside her, Nathaniel drew in a tight breath, clearly disapproving of the trust involved with revealing her heritage but he could be damned right now, or so Eliante decided.

The guard-captain froze, registering the gravitas of the statement. "Wait here," she finally said stiffly. "I'll check things over with the bann."

As Captain Mathias departed toward the keep's interior, Eliante nudged Anders, indicating he should dismount her mare. Nathaniel swung his leg over his own horse and hit the ground with a business-like lack of grace. She followed suit, but the moment her feet hit the mud, Nathaniel had rounded on her.

"What are you thinking?" he hissed, trying not to draw attention to the exchange. "You can't wave your family name around like that; you have no idea how Bann Loren will react–"

"Oh, so _now _you want to talk strategy?" she snapped back. "Besides, why do I have to hide who I am? What has _my_ family got to be ashamed of?"

"It's a tactical move–"

"What would be the difference between her telling him and me telling him when we go in? If we even could have gone in without saying who we were? Besides, why do you get to call all of the shots?"

"I didn't argue for us to go to Soldier's Peak or even here. I wanted to go to Denerim, as I have from the very beginning!"

"But you keep treating me as though I'm the one that's done something wrong, or the one that needs to be watched constantly!"

"Thus implying that I'm the one that needs watching?"

"You introduced me to Avernus for me and don't think I didn't notice you sneaking away to try and kill him in the night. He _helped _us."

"If you would listen to what I have to say, you would know that he's helped me too."

"Me, listen?" she chuckled darkly. "As if you've been saying anything to me for me to hear."

"Not that I'm not entertained by all this drama," Anders cut in, amber eyes wide and smile tense, "but can we keep focused on the task at hand?"

Nathaniel stepped back, regarding Eliante coldly. "I suppose I now see why we haven't been speaking," he observed. "It would seem that you don't like what I have to say."

"That goes both ways," she retorted back, folding her arms. "If I were you, I might keep my family name to myself," she added with a slight smirk, "we don't want to draw Bann Loren's attention unduly to you for your father's actions."

"I never suggested otherwise," was the curt reply.

"Seriously," Anders insisted, a broad smile plastered on his face for the benefit of the approaching Captain Mathias. "The way you two carry on, people will talk."

Face hot, she fixed her gaze on the toes of her boots, trying not to remember a time when people _did _talk and her father had had to speak privately to her one winter at court. It felt like another era. If the talk was true and King Cailan was dead, perhaps it had been. Still, Anders's pleading advice was taken in stride and Captain Mathias returned to a trio of very quiet people.

"Bann Loren wants to see you," said the captain to Eliante. "He's taking dinner in his study. If you'll follow me…"

She nodded and stepped forward, following. As they crossed the courtyard, captain and Cousland, Eliante glanced backward at Anders and Nathaniel, still standing in the rain beside the horses. For a moment, it seemed that her blue eyes met Nathaniel's grey and she wondered why he wasn't walking forward, demanding to see Bann Loren as well. But he wasn't.

For a moment, she considered calling back for him, taking him with her. But she didn't. He didn't ask and she didn't offer and she felt a strange satisfaction at leaving him behind, just as she had in the main hall at Highever Castle all that time ago.

* * *

_My lord,_

_I apologize for the delay in correspondence but this is the first letter I've managed to get out since the Arl's illness. Undead enemies attack Redcliffe village every night, coming forth from the castle. This developed just after there was word of some kind of scandal involving an apostate and the Arl's son. But somehow I think you'll be more interested to hear that the Grey Wardens have arrived in Redcliffe. With them is Fergus Cousland._

_Are my eyes and ears needed anywhere else? I would like to move on from this Maker-forsaken town. _

_-B_

* * *

A manservant was barely removing a tray of half-eaten pie from the study when Eliante entered; she stepped to one side to let the man pass. Backlit by crackling light projected from the flames within the fireplace, Bann Loren –a balding man of middling height –wiped his mouth with an ivory napkin and regarded her with a level gaze. She refused to flinch at the scrutiny, reminding herself of her father's lessons that life as a noble was to be subject to constant study, and returned his even regard, chin parallel to the floor, a determined set to her mouth and brow. After another moment had passed, Bann Loren cleared his throat, set down the napkin, and slid a sheet of rough parchment across his desk. "Can you explain this?"

Slowly, as though she did not trust her movements, she took three steps toward the desk, leaned forward, and reached out, dragging the parchment across the smooth wood service. It was grainy and coarse beneath her fingertips and she felt an intense sense of foreboding at first contact. Once the sheet was squarely upon the desk in front of her, she looked down, eyes tracing the words with a growing disbelief until… "That doesn't look anything like me."

The statement triggered an unexpected chortle from the bann. "You're lucky it doesn't," he agreed, wiping the back of his hand across his brow, "otherwise you probably would have been stopped on your way to my estate. Is it true?"

She shook her head, the motion growing more and more rapid until the letters that spelled _Eliante Cousland: A traitor and a coward _blurred before her eyes. "No," she said and then repeated the dissention. "No. It isn't. I'll stake my life on it. It's not true."

"You may have to," was the chilling response. "Whatever evidence Arl Howe went to Loghain with was obviously rather convincing."

Her fingernails dug tiny crescents into the parchment, biting through to scrape against the polished wood beneath. "Where is he?"

"Dividing his time between his lands and the city arl's estate in Denerim," Loren answered, folding his arms. "Or so Teagan has written me. Apparently Eamon's brother has started quite a stir upon his return from Ostagar."

"Ostagar," Eliante repeated. "What really happened there?"

"What didn't happen there?" Loren said with another bleak bout of laughter. "Total upheaval is what happened. The king –poor foolish Cailan –dies on the field and Teyrn Loghain turns about and rushes back to the capital just in time to claim the Regency for his daughter. And that slime Howe is right there waiting for him, Cousland personal documents and Orlesian missives in hand and the accusation of your family's treason on his tongue."

"And Loghain believes him."

"And Loghain believes him," repeated the bann in agreement, raising a chalice to his lips. When he pulled the brim away to speak again, the wine had stained his mouth. "And who is around in Denerim to refute it?"

Her hands curled into fists, her mouth struggling to keep her lower lip from trembling in sheer blinding fury at herself for being so stupid, so childish to run off and play at having an adventure in an abandoned fortress like a child. Nathaniel had been right. She should have ridden to Denerim at first opportunity. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her nails dug into her palms and her teeth bit into her lower lip.

Loren noticed and something in him softened at the sight. "I don't think you could have done anything," he said gently. "At best, you would have been put under scrutiny and married off to some border lord's second son with no influence and, at worst, named a traitor with the rest. You've done very well, keeping your head down and out of trouble and then coming to those with better wisdom and experience for aid."

She said nothing for a few long moments. When she spoke, she asked quietly, "Did my brother Fergus make it to the camp at Ostagar?"

After some thought, Loren nodded. "He did but, from what I recall, he did not return from a scouting mission before the final battle. I don't know anything more, I'm afraid." He paused and the wrinkles about his eyes multiplied into an expression of complex decision that culminated in: "Is it true that you were the only one to make it out from the castle that night?"

Looking up at him from between stray strands of dark hair, she considered her answer, a knot in her stomach. "No," she finally admitted. "Nathaniel Howe is with me. He got away and he got me away."

"What of Landra?" he asked and his voice seemed very fragile: a strange sound to come from such a round man. "Did you see her? Did my wife survive?"

As the images came flooding back to the forefront of her mind, one hand rose to clamp against her mouth, choking back her grief at the memories. Wordless, she shook her head once, and then twice, and then several times more, blue-grey eyes staring at some ornate carved figurine that was perched upon the desk beside her arrest warrant.

"What of my son?" he asked and this time his voice did break.

"I didn't see him," she managed to get out between her fingers, eyes burning. "I didn't see him; I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bann Loren stood very still, arms still folded, mute in his own grief. "So Rendon Howe's son survives and mine does not," he finally stated bleakly. "And now he's here." At her nod of confirmation, his brown eyes turned crystal, like the amber sap that oozes out from trees. "I don't want to see him," he said stiffly. "You are welcome to stay here but I don't want to see him. You tell him that. I don't want to see him."

"With all due respect—"

"I don't want to see him."

"I understand," she said quietly, starting to back out of the room. He said nothing in return. Softly, she closed the study door behind her and, as she turned to walk back down the hallway toward the stairwell, she heard a shattering from within the study. She doubted that the carved figurine on the desk had survived.

* * *

_A letter to Antiva, from the desk of Rendon Howe, Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Amaranthine, and acting Arl of Denerim:_

_You have failed me. I have little tolerance for failure. You will have the remainder of your payment when I have his head and the heads of the Grey Wardens he travels with._

_Redcliffe. Get it done right this time._

_-RH_

* * *

It felt like another time as Eliante stepped out of the tub of now murky and tepid bathwater and enfolded herself into a warm sheet. Behind the privacy of a folding screen, she worked her hair out of travel-ratted braids and combed through, wincing at the number of individual hairs that the comb's teeth tugged free from her scalp. The weeks of travel had not been kind on her hygiene; in the polished metal pane of the mirror, she had almost looked worthy of the crude etching on the warrant. The idea that it could be an accurate likeness frightened her. _A coward and a traitor…_

She stepped out from behind the screen, glancing about the room. A maidservant had spirited away the clothes she had arrived in, all of the way down to her smallclothes, insisting on giving everything a proper washing. That encounter had been a new and somewhat unsettling experience. It was the first time anyone had looked at Eliante Cousland as though she was as poor as a church mouse.

Finally spotting a nightdress and robe folded beside a covered tray, she quickly scuttled across the guest room and arranged herself into some state of decency. With a sigh, she finally allowed herself to let go of the exhausting ever-in-motion and slightly paranoid attitude she felt she had adopted since the flight from Highever. It was fine. She was among friends. She could allow herself to sleep deeply. She could completely comb her hair every morning instead of simply undoing and then redoing a braid. She could stop looking over her shoulder. She could eat a meal that didn't seem undercooked in the haste to eat quickly and move on. Despite what that warrant said, she could play the Cousland lady again instead of the Cousland fugitive.

_A coward and a traitor._

Well, she could, if only for a night.

There was a bark from outside the chamber and she turned away from the covered tray to hurry to undo the latch and pull the door open. Immediately, Hunter bounded forward, tail a blur, nearly knocking her to the ground. Laughing, Eliante slid forward onto her knees and wrapped her arms around the mabari hound. "That's my boy," she said affectionately, "always forgetting he's not a puppy anymore and probably weighs as much as I do. Hey, watch it," she yelped, still laughing as she deftly dodged Hunter's tongue. "I just bathed, you little monster."

"I think he was jealous that you shut him out and denied him the view," said Anders from the hallway, grinning with wicked amber eyes peering through damp locks of pale hair. Undone from the leather tie, his locks were longer than she had guessed. "I know I am."

"Oh, I'm sure," she said dryly, getting back to her feet, still fending off her hound's excited antics. "Somebody seems to have bathed him."

"He certainly needed it more than the rest of us. I hope they cleaned his teeth too; some of that fish we fed him two nights ago was starting to smell." He winced theatrically and then looked around, taking in the carpets and tapestries, glancing through her chamber door at the bed within. "You know, I think I could get used to this."

"To the noble's life? We'll have to find some bann's daughter for you to marry."

"Nah," he shook his head. "I couldn't bear the weight of responsibility. I'd just like a couple doors in my house is all. The Circle was severely lacking in those."

"You were in dormitories, weren't you?" she questioned, scratching Hunter's head. The hound's tongue lolled in satisfaction. "Like the Templars are during training?"

"For our apprenticeship, yeah," replied Anders with a shrug. "But once you move up in the world –literally, mages' quarters are a flight of stairs up –you still don't have any doors on your bedchambers. It's really just… monstrous. At least the cell gave me some semblance of privacy, illusionary as it must have been."

"That's just wrong," she muttered.

"Shame there aren't more people who feel as you do then," was the dry response. "Oh wait, there are. They're just all second-class Maker's creatures. Anyway, I'm for bed. Think the bann will want to chat in the morning?"

"I think… he's at a difficult place," she answered, trying to be diplomatic. "We'll see."

"Fair enough. See you in the morning. I wonder if they'll give me honey with whatever gunky breakfast oatmeal they serve up. Never thought I'd miss the Tranquil cooking…"

With his audible musings, Anders disappeared into the chamber he had been allotted. Yawning, Eliante lingered in her chamber's doorway, fluffing up the fur around Hunter's collar and cooing endearments now that there was no one around to hear them. "Such a smart boy," she enthused. "A very, very, very smart boy. We'd have never found the Wardens' stash without that nose of yours, or however you managed it. And those skeletons we found in the armory would've gotten the jump on us for sure if you hadn't warned us first."

"You're right," Nathaniel agreed, entering from another room off of the hall. "He did help make that entire little adventure somewhat less of a waste."

She glanced up at him, biting back her initial scathing impulse. "And here you were telling me before that Avernus helped you in all sorts of unnamed ways," she settled for commenting coolly, scratching behind Hunter's ears.

His mouth twisted slightly. "Just one," he said. "Just one."

"Glad that you didn't decide to 'do something' with the poor old mage then?" Chin held high, she rose to her feet and swept regally into her chamber, Hunter at her heels.

Nathaniel watched her dramatic passing with something of a patronizing wryness. "Against my better judgment," he begrudgingly conceded.

"You never did say what turned you so against mages," she remarked, perching on the edge of the empty bath.

"You've never been interested in what I have to explain," he answered, following to lean against the doorframe, "about anything. Not that it's a story I enjoy sharing. In fact, I do everything I can to wipe it from my memory."

"It'd be a waste of energy to put interest into something you won't share anyway," she replied, unable to bite back the cruelty of her words.

"All for the best," he responded coolly, "because you'd be about the last person I'd confide in about it."

Silence dropped between them like a heavy curtain. Finally, guilt knotting in her chest, Eliante said, "I'm sorry. What I said was uncalled for."

He shrugged. "You haven't exactly been trying for my good opinion for a while now. Why the sudden change?"

"You clearly came here wanting to talk."

"I did. There was something I learned at Soldier's Peak."

Her gaze darted to the desk across the room, unable to help herself. "There was something I… learned there too."

"You saw what the mages did," he said, looking at his boots, "how they raised the demons. That… wasn't the only use they had for blood magic, I found out."

She shrugged, not following. "What do you mean?"

"Avernus…" Nathaniel hesitated, his face betraying inner conflict. "Avernus mentioned to me that as the warden-mage during the rebellion… He used blood magic on the Fereldan nobility, to draw them to Sophia's cause, to evoke their sympathies when they would not otherwise lend them to the Grey Wardens."

"But isn't that all ancient history?" she said, trying to be tactful and failing. "What's that got to do with things now?"

He uncurled his spine from the doorframe, stepping further into her room, grey eyes intent. "The father I knew would never have done the things, the atrocities, that the man who killed your family did," he insisted. "It was completely uncharacteristic behavior; there is a complete disconnect if you look for it."

"You were gone," she rebuked, rising from the bath's rim. "You were gone for years and years. People change, Nathaniel."

"I see that," he stated tersely and something in his tone and gaze made her quite sure that she herself was the object of that statement. "Believe me, I do. But our fathers saved each other's lives at White River; they were the best of friends after that battle. I refuse to believe that the man that raised me would throw all of that away on suspicion alone, abandon years of trust and comradeship in some fit of jealous pique."

"Maybe he wasn't the man you thought he was," she suggested, irked.

"And you would know better?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it," he pointed out curtly. "I say it again: the father I know would not go to such drastic lengths without reason."

"There was no reason," she contested, "and 'drastic lengths' is a very pretty way to describe what his men did to my brother's wife and son."

"Maybe they weren't in their rights minds. And maybe my father wasn't either. And maybe it wasn't his fault."

"Wasn't his fault?" Eliante repeated incredulously. "And whose fault was it then?" Rapidly, her mind raced to connect the dots. "Maker, Nathaniel," she started, comprehension dawning, "are you trying to tell me that you think blood magic is the cause of all of this?"

"And what if I am?" he snapped, pacing back and forth on a closed circuit between desk and bed. "I need more than ten fingers and toes to count the number of people who could wish your father dead and mine discredited: some Free Marcher state, any number of coastland pirates, insurrectionists, patriots trying to spur on a war with Orlais, even Urien Kendells always resented the attention the north drew away from Denerim. The Empress of Orlais herself; why not her too?"

"Why would Orlais want to incriminate itself along with my father?" she asked, unimpressed, raising her gaze to the ceiling. "I mean, really, Nathaniel. Are you sure you're not drawing at straws?"

"I won't rule it out," he stated grimly, "because Orlais has been known to play a very long game. Besides, blood mages are hardly few and far between. It wouldn't be difficult to secure one's services, and both of our fathers were very conservative men. It's easy to see why an apostate mage would hold little love for either of them."

She said nothing in response; only stared, mentally processing and rebuffing. He flushed under her gaze. "What, do you think I've gone mad too?"

"No," she answered quietly. "I think you're just trying to find a way to redeem the father you love."

Nathaniel's lips curled back into a slight snarl. "Don't pity me."

"I don't pity you, Nate," she said, taking a step toward him, "but I understand what you're trying to do with this, with what Avernus told you about what happened all those years ago. I'm just trying to say that I think it's extremely farfetched and I… I will not buy blood magic as an excuse for what that bastard did to my parents, to my sister, my nephew, my nursemaid, my tutor, my home. He can't be forgiven and I refuse to lie to you that I will ever think otherwise."

Now he was staring at her. "This is what you do," he finally said. "You just think that you know everything. You really do; you just assume that the only side to the story is yours and yours alone. And even when you're in the wrong about something, when you know it, you will refuse to admit it every single time."

"I've admitted that I've been wrong in the past," she snapped but he would have none of it.

"No, you just know better than the rest of us," he continued, quietly scathing, "and you never give us a chance to explain, not ever, because you already know the truth. And the truth, Eliante, is that you really don't. I mean, do you even really know whether your family was conspiring, even corresponding however innocently, with the Orlesians? Would your father really have shared that with you? Or are you just so adamant in your belief that you must have known him best, beyond anyone else in Thedas? Were you privy to every letter he wrote in his private study, every quiet meeting he had at the nobles' tavern in Denerim? Can you tell me that? Tell me you were, that you would put your head on a block to swear it so, and I'll believe you. Go on, tell me."

"No!" she burst out, vision blurring in anger. "I don't know for certain!"

"See?" he said with quiet satisfaction. "Now you're just like me. You're just trying to find a way to redeem the father you love."

Flinching, she recoiled, fingers curling around the polished wood of a bedpost. "All I know," she responded with muted contempt, "is that I will not shrink from my duty to my family and what I have promised to them and to myself and run off to the Free Marches like a coward!"

"Again, you pretend to know things that you don't," he seethed, stalking toward the door.

Quickly, she crossed the room after him. "Where are you going?"

"To Denerim," was the short answer, "where I should have ridden at the start."

"You say that I don't understand," she said tersely, grabbing at his sleeve. "Well, enlighten me, why don't you? Because all I know is that we were promised to each other and we…" Her voice faltered, shaking. "And then you left. And you didn't just leave; you _left_. And I didn't hear from you again until the dinner at Highever Castle before everything went to hell."

He stood very still, as though evaluating the weight of her words. But he did not pull away, at least not immediately. "I wrote to you," he said in a voice like ice, "every week for six months and then every month for another year, trying to explain. By then, it was rather clear that you weren't interested in anything I had to offer you, no explanations, and no apologies. And then I come back and you're different, suddenly this new Eliante that makes eyes at the fop across the dinner table to get a rise out of someone."

"I never got a single letter from you," she whispered softly.

"Didn't you?" Nathaniel said scornfully. "So then you would be blissfully unaware that my father was not only going to have me break off the betrothal that winter but also threatened to disinherit me completely if I didn't pledge to wed someone else. That's rather convenient. I applaud you."

"No," she answered softly, "I didn't know. And you left."

"I left," he affirmed with some satisfaction. "Sent a letter off with my father's seal to Starkhaven, sent myself off on the next boat out of Denerim. Of course then my father had to put some clever spin on it all, keep the family name out of the gutter. But at that moment I had decided I was done with politics." He shot a look down at her, somewhat suspicious, somewhat accusing. "I left you a letter too, before I left."

"I never got it," she protested.

He gazed down at her, scrutinizing. "Lying?" he contemplated aloud. "I can't tell anymore. When I left, you were just you and you didn't have your father's mouth and the Cousland slyness. Now I can't tell if you believe what you're saying or you're just telling me what you think I want to hear because you think that 'your chances of survival are better with me than without.' Isn't that right?"

"Nathaniel," she started, her grip tightening on his shirtsleeve just in time for him to shake her off.

"I got you this far," he was saying, more to himself than to her as he started for the door. "I humored you and that apostate and the merchant and let you run around Soldier's Peak and now I've gotten you to Bann Loren. He'll look out for you, take you to Denerim for the Landsmeet and maybe your brother will show up somewhere. I've done my part. I've done what I owed your father."

Stricken dumb, still processing, she watched, mute, as he left the room and disappeared down the hallway. Perhaps if she had rallied herself, refuted his point, protested that she had not known, had never known and had been led to believe otherwise in all things concerning his departure, she could have made him stay. But she found that she could not summon the words; that for all his talk of the Cousland slyness, it failed her now and it felt as though he, her one true ally in perhaps all of Thedas, had slipped through her fingers.

It was true. The world was changing. The king was dead, her greatest enemy at the regent's right hand, and now, for all Nathaniel claimed that Bann Loren would look out for her, Eliante Cousland was alone with what appeared to be few options left at her disposal.

She glanced over her shoulder at the torn out pages on the desk, the smooth lines of roads and the jagged scribbles of mountains, the carefully labeled passages to the underground.

Out of her sight-lines, Hunter whined.

* * *

_If the blood mage coven underneath Denerim doesn't have its fingers in the nobles' pies (more like heads), I'll bet my favorite pen that the magister Caladrius of "Unrest in the Alienage" infamy does. Regardless, there are many candidates with reasons to mess with Ferelden and blood magic at their disposal, as Nathaniel insists._

_I seem to remember reading/hearing somewhere (from the beginning of Return to Ostagar DLC?) that Bann Loren died at Ostagar. Regardless, he is very much alive in my AU._

_Feedback, both positive and constructive, is very much appreciated as always._


	11. Blood Ties

**Chapter Eleven: Blood Ties**

The sun rose on Redcliffe and they were not all dead. Whether he should be thanking the Maker's smile, as Mother Hannah declared, or the militia, as Teagan praised, Fergus was immensely grateful. Despite having insisted on making his stand at the Chantry doorstep rather than retreating to safety within the chapel, Teagan had survived the night, as had the majority of the villagers involved. A house or two had burned, gutted with flames, when some fool decided it would be a brilliant idea to set arrows alit, but buildings could be rebuilt where bodies could not be, or so the smoldering pile of corpses, set out to sea first thing that morning, reminded them all.

Standing between Mordred and Teagan on the Chantry steps as Mother Hannah asked for a moment of silence in reverence to the dead, Fergus could not help but feel some pride upon gazing out at the assembled Morrigan, Leliana, and Sten and knowing without a doubt that each of his companions had held their own during the previous night's battle. Not that any of them were necessarily "his"; he just could not help but feel some responsibility for them, since he had accompanied them to Redcliffe and to Teagan. If any of them had failed in any way, he would have taken the disgrace upon himself as he had led them here in large measure.

And now Teagan was praising each of them in turn as the village's saviors. Fergus's mouth twisted in amusement. Morrigan rolled her eyes. Leliana smiled demurely. Sten and Mordred were brothers in unimpressed expressions and were both somehow more intimidating in that it appeared that flattery could not move them.

Not that it was undeserved; a two-handed blade in his grip, Sten had swept through the fray the previous night, the Redcliffe militia scattering to stay out of reach of his sweep, the less wise undead cleaved in two by the powerful swings. And then there had been Mordred, the young mage following in the qunari's wake with fire in his hands and eyes. Even Morrigan's effective ice spells seemed inferior to Mordred's inferno scorching the skeletons Sten had shattered, making any second wind impossible for Redcliffe's unnatural enemies. In the calm of the dawn that followed the attack, the mayor Murdock had turned to Fergus and remarked, "That's been the biggest thorn in our side for a week, the way those buggers get back up again. Makes me wish we'd had a mage in residence all along."

Perhaps Teagan was right and they should all be thanking Mordred that they had lived to see the sun rise along Lake Calenhad.

And it seemed that the young Warden-Commander had indeed earned the bann's respect and admiration during the previous night, or so it appeared as the crowd of villagers dissolved into cheers that belied their exhaustion and Teagan clapped Mordred on the back as he moved down the line toward Fergus. He supposed that sheer power was impressive enough but doubted that the mage would retain Teagan's admiration for long, or so he assured himself as Teagan leaned in between himself and Mordred and said quietly, "Meet me by the mill."

The next thing Fergus knew, they were overwhelmed by the grateful denizens of the village and Teagan had slunk away through the crowd. Fergus struggled to look over a belligerent blacksmith's head and ignore his insisting on the recovery of his daughter, finally finding his old friend at the square's edge, gazing at his people with a sorrowful smile. Fergus's brow knotted at the sight. He knew that look.

"Keep Mordred here awhile," he said quietly to Leliana, jerking his head in the direction of where Mordred stood beside Morrigan, the both of them looking very above it all as the various parents in the crowd tried to keep their children from gawking at Sten and the wives the same of their husbands with Morrigan.

The Orlesian shot him an enigmatic look, replying, "And what makes you think I would be any good at that sort of thing?"

"Bedazzle him with your many charms," he responded dryly and she dimpled, apparently perversely charmed by his blatant insincerity, and swept across the Chantry steps to Mordred's side, either to engage him in distraction or rat Fergus out; he couldn't be sure. So much about that woman was contradictory, the least of which being the ease with which she wore both priest's robes and armor as well as the easy Orlesian mannerisms she wore with an attested Fereldan devotion. It aroused suspicion, but Fergus still found Mordred Amell more disconcerting.

He found Teagan looking out across the village and the water. Following his friend's gaze, Fergus found Redcliffe Castle to be shrouded in mist like some enchanted castle of legend where the fae lingered and no living man dared enter.

"The castle looks so peaceful," Teagan was remarking, registering his approach, "as though all of its inhabitants are asleep."

_Or dead_, Fergus added but he didn't say that aloud. "As though someone had put the entire citadel under a spell," he agreed and was not expecting Teagan to flinch as though he had indeed hypothesized his "everyone's dead" theory.

"It would take a very impressive feat of magic to do that," Teagan replied warily and Fergus thought there was something else in that statement and its follow-up, "and there are no such mages at Redcliffe. Certainly no one like your friend the Warden-Commander, for example."

"A mage of that sort would be an apostate," remarked Fergus cautiously, "and therefore would be in defiance of the Chantry's laws."

"Indeed," Teagan agreed and then fell into silence.

The wind whistled above their heads and through the stunted canyons along the cliff, kicking up dust in its wake and turning the blades of the windmill above with ominous creaks. Teagan twisted the signet ring about his right hand, turning the etched band round and round his third finger.

The windmill went around one more time and then, between that sound and the visual of Teagan's longstanding nervous habit, Fergus couldn't take it anymore.

"Teagan, this is ridiculous," he said tersely. "We're soldiers and we're friends; we don't deal in half-truths and cloak-and-dagger. What are you trying to tell me?"

"Do you know about Alistair?" was the out-of-the-blue response. Not even a response; it was another question and one that had little to do with whatever Teagan was hiding. It irked Fergus beyond belief.

"Yes," he answered shortly, "and Mordred does not and I recommend we keep it that way. What's that got to do with what's going on up in that castle?"

"Then you understand why we are not bringing him up there. It will be you, myself, and Mordred alone. I would not even bring along the warden-commander if I was not convinced we will need his power."

"What're you trying to hide up there?"

"I'm merely trying to keep the boy alive."

"So you can depose Loghain."

"Does he not need to be deposed?" Teagan met Fergus's eyes evenly. "He claims he is doing what is best for his country; did he do what was best for Cailan by leaving him to die?"

"You've thought a lot about that line," Fergus remarked wryly. "Already use it on another audience?"

"That doesn't make it any less valid a point," Teagan answered crossly. "He has Howe on his right; do you really think he'll give up the loudest voice in his favor so your family can have justice? And doesn't my nephew deserve as much justice as your family?"

"That is all beside the point!" Fergus snapped. "What's going on in the castle? You say Eamon is ill; what happened to Isolde and Connor?"

"I don't know!" Teagan protested a little too quickly and Fergus did not believe his friend. "But I intend to find out. Today. Here is what I propose… Maker's breath."

Fergus turned about at Teagan's astonishment, one hand flying to the blade at his belt, and then blinked in his own surprise. For there was Isolde, clad in a peerless white gown, honey-blonde hair coming undone, rushing down the path from the castle gates, outstripping the pair of armored guards who accompanied her.

"Teagan, oh, Teagan," she cried out between heavy breaths, one slender hand clutching at the cream-colored corseting at her waist. "Oh, thank the Maker, Teagan."

"Isolde?" breathed Teagan as though doubting her corporal presence. Taking a half-step forward, he reached out one hand toward her as though blinded.

"Oh, Teagan," she said again. "Thank the Maker you are here. Quickly, you must come with me."

Fergus coughed, feeling rather awkward to say the least. Teagan ignored him and took Isolde's hand, drawing her closer. "Is it Eamon?" he asked. "What has happened? Does he live?"

She hesitated. "He… does. My husband lives. But you must come with me."

"Certainly," said Fergus, releasing the hand on his sword, "we both will. Lead the way. I've heard wonderful things about Redcliffe's hospitality."

"What?" she started at his voice; had she not even registered his presence? "Teagan, who is –Fergus Cousland? What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

"Wanting an audience with your husband, madam," he replied. "As do the Grey Wardens."

"Grey Wardens, here? Teagan, there is no time for this; you must come with me."

"Where?" asked another voice from behind them and they all jumped.

It was Mordred and Leliana finally making their arrival, the latter of which catching Fergus's eye with a meaningful yet discreet tilt of her copper-haired head. Mordred did not look away from Isolde. "To where 'must' he go with you?"

"Arlessa Isolde," said Teagan, a note of warning in his tone, "may I present Mordred Amell, Commander of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, such as they are. Also Leliana, a treasured ally of Redcliffe." Even under the tense circumstances, he smiled engagingly at the former lay sister. Teagan did indeed love women. Fergus could only be happy that his sister's affections had lain elsewhere, not that Nathaniel had been much of an improvement. In fact, it had proven to be a disastrous choice. He could not wait to find that lying, traitorous, son of a–

The arlessa's amber eyes looked Mordred over and the expression on her face caught Fergus's attention. He watched as she registered the robes and the staff and her skin paled and eyes widened in realization and resulting horror. "A mage?" she gasped. "No, no, no, no, Teagan, this is not how to set things right. Another mage will do more harm than good; I beg of you—"

"Another?" Mordred repeated, looking at her sharply. "Another mage, you were saying?"

"No, I mean that I cannot… I cannot…" she faltered, still staring at Mordred with a mixture of horror and disgust that made even Fergus flinch, and he was not even on the receiving end. He spared a glance at Mordred and even more disconcerting was the mage's own expression. He did not appear angry or affronted when confronted with this look of utter loathing and contempt; he merely appeared resigned, as if this had been a common occurrence throughout his life. Yes, that was it: it was as though this woman's undisguised repulsion, which would have rattled Fergus had he been the one faced with it, was merely commonplace for Mordred. And he found that, for the first time, he pitied the younger man.

Leliana took all of this in with bright eyes but said nothing. Teagan turned to Isolde and took both of her hands in his. "Isolde, you must tell us. What has happened?"

Tears streaming down her face in familiar tracks –or so the streaks in her once carefully applied paint attested to –she answered haltingly, "There is… a great evil in the castle. It has taken Connor and now Eamon. You must help me; it will not let me go for long. You must come with me, for Eamon's sake. For Connor's."

"I will," Teagan agreed, "but let me speak to Fergus and the Wardens first. Isolde, give us a moment and I will go back with you."

Sniffling, she nodded and retreated toward the gates with her guards in tow. Mordred watched the two armored men closely, murky green eyes seeming to take in their every movement, as Fergus exploded into protests he had struggled to conceal while the arlessa was within earshot.

"Have you gone mad?" he demanded. "An ancient evil is within the castle and you want to go in alone with her? Have you decided to become a martyr?"

"They are my family, Fergus," said Teagan flatly without looking directly at him, gazing over Fergus's shoulder at the waterfall plunging over the cliff's face. "If it was Oriana and Oren and you had a chance of saving them, you would have bashed in my skull had I tried to stop you."

Dust scattered as Teagan hit the ground, landing hard on his back, Fergus towering over him. Isolde glanced toward them at the sound and made as though to run forward, but one of her guards held out a hand to halt her and, strangely, she obeyed. Mordred seemed only mildly interested as Teagan struggled to his feet and drove his fist hard into Fergus's nose.

Leliana was less ambivalent. "Stop!" she exclaimed, stepped quickly between them as Fergus cradled his nose in his palm, wincing. "You are acting like children," she told Teagan, "or… animals," she added, looking to Fergus.

Taking a hard breath in, Fergus released his hand from his nose. "Forget it," he said, glaring at his old friend. "It's not my responsibility to save him from his own folly."

"But it is mine to save my family from theirs," said Teagan, trying to conceal the fact he was repeatedly flexing and un-flexing his hand after the punch. "Take this," he said to Leliana and slipped the signet ring from his finger and placed it in her palm. "It opens a trap door within the mill and the passageway beneath will take you to the dungeons." He looked to all of them, his expression quite grim. "Eamon is priority," he said quietly. "Everyone else, me, Isolde, we are all expendable."

"I cannot believe that," Leliana protested earnestly, blue eyes wide.

He smiled warmly at her. "You are beautiful as well as brave. The Maker smiled upon me indeed when he sent you to Redcliffe."

"Oh, go soak your head," Fergus muttered, still pinching the bridge of his nose and glaring at the dirt under his boots. Mordred permitted himself a slight smirk.

Leliana glowed. Teagan looked to Fergus and, finding his friend's eyes, gave a nod of understanding and perhaps apology. Fergus, mouth twisting, nodded in return and watched in silence as the bann hurried to Isolde's side and the two nobles disappeared through the gates, the guards flanking their progress.

Mordred tilted his head to one side, tongue pinched between his teeth as he thought aloud. "There's something about those guards…" he began to say but trailed off, shaking his head. "I suppose we'll see, soon enough," he said before leading the three of them toward the windmill. Fergus suddenly found himself too world-weary to contest the mage and followed without contention.

* * *

"It is so romantic," Leliana was saying as she followed Fergus through the underground passageway from the mill but he paid her little mind for the most part, more concerned with brushing spider webs out of his path and trying not to dwell on what could be awaiting them at the path's end. "He was the rightful Arl's son but she didn't know it, not even when she found that she was inevitably falling in love with the dashing young rebel that haunted the forests about her new and strange home as well as her dreams. And when he took his rightful place, Arl Eamon lifted her up to become his arlessa, for he was as smitten with her as she him. Ah," she sighed. "It is so lovely, like something out of the old stories."

Neither of the men accompanying her seemed impressed. Fergus grunted. Mordred seemed preoccupied with the fact he had snagged his robes' hem on something or another. Leliana clicked her tongue and insisted, "It _is _lovely. He could have merely refused to acknowledge her and sent her back to Orlais with her family."

"And saved himself a lot of criticism," Fergus said, peering ahead into the darkness beyond before venturing onward. "No one was very pleased when he took a foreigner for wife."

"But your wife was Antivan, no? Did that give you trouble?"

He stopped in his tracks, reminding himself that it was in no way good form to strike a lady, however obnoxiously oblivious and… Orlesian. "No," he replied testily, "although a great deal of noble Fereldan mothers were highly frustrated, I was told. Although I imagine that they're all counting their blessings that their daughters didn't marry into the Couslands right about now."

"Oh," said Leliana softly, evidently realizing her folly. "I am sorry; I didn't mean to…" her voice trailed off at the sight of Fergus shrugging, impassive. She paused before speaking up again. "I heard a strange thing about Arlessa Isolde though, from the charming blacksmith Owain in the village. His daughter Valena is a maid in the castle and she told him that she is convinced that Isolde is having an affair with her son's new tutor, Jowan."

The gossip meant nothing to Fergus nor did the names involved; he ignored her idle chatter and continued toward the faint streaks of light in the distance. However, this piece of intelligence had a very different effect on Mordred: the mage froze. Fergus, wondering why the only light in the tunnel was no longer following him, turned around to see a rare expression of astonishment on Mordred's pale features. "Jowan?"

"That was the name, yes," she said, turning about as well. "Is something wrong?"

Mordred hesitated. "It's a… common Fereldan name, isn't it?"

"You're not even from Ferelden?" Fergus questioned, beginning to doubt the politics of having a foreigner as self-proclaimed Commander of the Grey.

"No," he admitted after a moment, "Kirkwaller. Or I was. Can we move forward?"

Resolving to wait until another occasion to point out the flawed logic of a Kirkwaller mage as Ferelden's warden-commander, Fergus shrugged and continued moving toward the light at the passageway's end. It wasn't as though Maric's bastard was any better from a politics standpoint; perhaps it was worse. And Maker forbid the Anderfels' Grey Wardens send something like an Orlesian to lead instead. Really, it would be a true blessing if Duncan could emerge alive from some hole in the ground or another to pick up the banner instead.

Of course, it would truly be a wonderful thing if several people of recent demise could be recalled to life.

From somewhere above them came the clamor of splintering wood and the screech of broken hinges followed by a sound that could only be described as a shriek: _"Get away from me, demons!"_

Whatever color remained in Mordred's face promptly vanished, but Fergus paid him little attention as Leliana rushed forward, one hand wrapped around behind her to undo the braces holding her short bow secure. The noble moved quickly forward as well, only to find that whatever ladder meant to give them leverage upward was apparently missing. Scowling, he pulled the sheathed sword form his belt and, taking scabbard in hand, thrust the hilt upward to bash at the feeble wooden covering above. Splinters fell around them like cinders in a wildfire.

He turned to Leliana, who had her bow already strung with an arrow notched and, remembering how he and Eliante had once insisted on gathering every apple on a tree at Highever and had probably risked life and limb to reach the upper branches, cupped his gloved hands together, stepped back, and leaned forward.

Recognizing his intent, Leliana nodded, said, "Do," as though this were some fancy Orlesian dance they were rehearsing, stepped one foot onto his extended hands, and broke through the weakened wood covering as he thrust her upward. She landed lithely upon the dungeon floor beyond the trapdoor, one foot in front of the other, and pulled her bowstring back once and then again, burying two arrows in each respective risen skeleton's skull. That being done, she quickly found a ladder off to one side of the room and promptly slid it down into the passage beneath.

Mordred and Fergus scaled the ladder, one after the other. The shrieking had ceased. "Hello?" someone asked instead. "Is someone there?"

"You poor thing," Leliana was saying as Mordred, his eyes fuming, marched forward toward the copper-haired archer and the cell on the far end of the room. Fergus had to conceal a slight snicker at the usually so collected warden's rather juvenile behavior. "Jowan," said Mordred, glaring at the cell's occupant who remained outside of Fergus's sightlines, "what a surprise. It figures you'd be perpetually covered in blood."

"Mordred?" replied the prisoner –Jowan –shock in his voice. "Last time I saw you, the Templars were dragging you downstairs. How'd you get out of their cells?"

"Wait," said Fergus, approaching, "you were in Templar custody?"

Mordred ignored him. "Jowan," he said again, "last time I saw you, you were attacking everyone with blood magic and then running away, leaving some people to take the fall for you being a complete idiot. Finally, you're in the cell where you belonged all along."

"Wait!" Fergus said again, more sharply. "Why were you in the Templar dungeons?"

"Well, that's simple," said Jowan, stepping forward to the forefront of his cell, allowing Fergus to see the prisoner's dark hair, greasy from days of imprisonment, and the bloodstains on his robes, the hollowness to his face that somehow seemed to echo Mordred's own slightly gaunt appearance. "He's a blood mage."

"You're a blood mage," Mordred retorted, "and one that was foolish enough to attack the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander. Now you'll be lucky if you get to be made Tranquil."

"I would rather die a blood mage than allow myself to become one of those soulless—"

"Enough!" Fergus growled. Both mages turned to stare at him and Leliana, otherwise observing, looked to him as well. "As far as I'm concerned, you're both blood mages," he said, less loudly. Mordred said nothing, only stared, but Jowan opened his mouth to object, causing Fergus to add, "And I really don't care. That is mage and Templar business; it is not mine. All I care about is Arl Eamon and Teagan and getting these blighted corpses out of Redcliffe."

"Well," said Mordred, his voice taking on the conversational quality that Fergus had come to understand meant anything but, "such wide-scale possessions are usually the result of Tears in the Fade, which are usually caused by the actions of a blood mage. Since I wasn't here to instigate anything like this…" He trailed off, glaring meaningfully at Jowan.

"Well, you would know all kinds of things about possession," Jowan muttered. More loudly, he said, "I know it looks suspicious but I didn't raise the dead or the demons. I'm here because… Well… I'm here because I poisoned the Arl. It was on Teyrn Loghain's orders, I swear!"

"That does make sense," said Leliana quickly, seeing Fergus's hand fall to his blade. "What better move than to eliminate the most influential man in the west under benign circumstances, especially now that his other rival in the north is already removed?"

Fergus regarded Jowan with utter contempt as Mordred sighed. "How did you even get here?" he demanded. "We heard that you were Connor's tutor; I thought you wanted a _farm_."

"Well, that was back when Lily and I… when she and I…" The poor man looked as though he was about to dissolve into tears. "What happened to her, Mordred? You have to tell me."

The warden-commander looked down his nose at his former friend and Fergus thought he caught sight of something slightly sadistic in the mage's eyes. "Someone was dragged rather forcefully down to the dungeons before he could see anything useful," he replied coldly.

"Look, I'm sorry," Jowan pleaded. "I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, least of all my best friend and the woman I… Please, this isn't my fault –I mean, it is but not in the obvious way."

"Well, then you'd better start explaining in what way you were involved," said Fergus coolly, "and fast. _My _best friend is in danger from 'a great evil' right now and I don't like the idea of waiting around listening to your sad tale. If only a mage could have created this 'tear,' I'm afraid that you seem to be the only mage who was around."

"But I'm not!" Jowan objected. "Connor is a mage too." At their resulting expressions of skepticism and disbelief, he flushed. "He had started to show… signs. Isolde… she's a very pious woman and she knew Connor would be taken away, so she… well, she brought me on as a private tutor, I suppose. But when the arl got sick, all hell broke loose. I'm worried that maybe, in trying to save his father, he may have done something foolish and ripped a hole in the Fade."

"A child raising a demon," Fergus still sounded doubtful, but Mordred merely sniffed and said, "It sounds more plausible than Jowan managing it. All he ever seemed to accomplish during class was setting people's hair on fire."

"Funny," said Jowan, folding his arms, "Very funny."

* * *

The sound of clapping drew them forward through the halls. From the glances he exchanged with Leliana and Jowan, Fergus was certain that he was not the only one among them who would the sometimes halting sometimes rhythmic sound ill-omened. They made Jowan go in front, and Mordred seemed to draw some strange, almost adolescent amusement from the resulting grumbling of his "best friend." Fergus himself found this bit of byplay amusing; it was interesting to see the warden-commander act something closer to his age for once.

The four of them found their way to the great hall; for a moment, Fergus remembered the last time he had occupied this chamber: it was high summer and Cailan had announced he wanted to do a royal progress to introduce himself and Anora to the country beyond Denerim as king and queen. It had been four years ago. Cailan could not take his eyes off of Anora. Even Loghain had cracked something brighter than a grimace at the sight of the shameless adoration. Fergus's sister had had a smart new riding hat for the hunts in Redcliffe's forests and Nathaniel Howe's attentions and she had delighted in both. Oren had just been taken out of gowns and dressed in short pants and his grandmother had declared the boy to be a miniature of his father at that charming age.

Looking back, he could forget the rain that would ruin the hunt and prospective picnic that day. He could forget the tight lips of the Orlesian ambassadors that still glowered at the loss of an imperial wedding and the appraising eye his father had turned on the miffed diplomats. He could ignore the arguments he had had with his wife over leaving Oren with the nurse at Highever. In retrospect, those days had been a veritable golden age for Ferelden and Fergus's family and friends.

But now Redcliffe castle's grand hall bore entertainment to a much less kingly guest.

Connor was clapping his hands and bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet to a tune no one else seemed able to hear. It appeared to be the same melody to which Teagan danced, spinning about on the stone floor and leaping to his feet with a grandiose flourish, a hole torn in the knee of his fine trousers. Leliana gasped her amazement at the strange sight, Fergus blinked, and Jowan looked as though he was going to be sick: an expression Arlessa Isolde shared with him as she stood beside what used to be her son on the dais.

"What's this, Mother?" rasped out a deep, grating voice that did not belong in a child's throat as Teagan seemed to conclude his routine. Fergus winced at the sound. "You said nothing of visitors. Who are they? I can't see them properly."

"Connor," said Isolde, her voice fragile and trembling, "these are merely men and a woman, just like myself and your father and uncle."

"You lie!" the thing within Connor retorted sharply, hissing. "These men are nothing like Father. They're strong and the woman is half your age and pretty besides. I'm shocked you didn't have her executed in a fit of jealousy." Isolde's lower lip shook and she stared at the ground. The boy rounded on the party of newcomers, sneering, "Oh look: here's the idiot mage. I take it back; he isn't strong at all. And this one, standing on his pride with his high chin and big sword, just like Uncle! Why don't you say 'hello,' Uncle? Be polite."

"Hello, Uncle," Teagan parroted in a prattling voice that didn't belong in his throat either. Jowan shuddered and Leliana murmured some fragment of the Chant.

"Connor," Isolde said again, practically moaning in desperation. "Please, stop this!"

"Why should I? A little fun never hurt anybody and who are you to deny me mine?"

"Your mother," Fergus pointed out, hardly knowing why, highly doubting that that would have any effect.

"Ha!" the boy scoffed and a much more sinister laugh seemed to echo from somewhere between the child's ribs. "I could claim more kinship to… to… _him_."

Connor's eerie gaze turned on Mordred, who had uncharacteristically been keeping quiet somewhere beside Leliana. The child's eyes burned violet as they focused on the Grey Warden mage, the voice softening to a tone lower and disturbingly feminine. "Yes, I know you," the demon within purred, making Fergus's skin crawl, "don't I?"

"No," said Mordred quietly, his own green-gray eyes fixed on his boots, "I can't say we've met."

The demon laughed softly, seductively, and the sound no longer seemed to emanate from Connor himself but instead echoed throughout the chamber. "Perhaps _we _have not," it agreed, "but I recognize my kin all the same. Such a _sweet_ boy, to offer such safe harbor and so _willingly_—"

Mordred's eyes flashed a pure, burning emerald and, for the briefest moment, Fergus thought he saw the mage's very skin splinter like crackled pottery, white hot burning lines rupturing through flesh and green light blooming like bruises. The noble opened his mouth to yell for help, from Jowan, from someone, to do something about whatever the demon within Connor was doing to the Grey Warden, but the bright green glowing ceased almost as quickly as it had begun, and Connor crumpled to the ground.

"Connor!" Isolde shrieked, falling to her knees beside her son and shaking the boy's shoulders as Mordred doubled over, breathing hard, Jowan at his side, the apostate's expression concerned.

The boy stirred slightly under her touch. "Mother?" he whimpered softly. "Is that you? What's happening? What's going on?"

"Praise the Maker," the arlessa breathed, pressing her son to her chest as Jowan and Leliana helped an even paler than usual Mordred to his feet.

"Get away from me, woman!" screamed the demon as Connor's body, a tool at its disposal, pushed and struggled against Isolde, finally tumbling backward down the steps of the dais. Isolde broke into sobs as Connor scrambled backwards into the hall's center, eyes frantic. "You!" he shouted, looking at the motionless guards at the hall's end, the same men that had escorted Isolde to the mill, the ones that had given Mordred pause with their dead eyes and still gait. "And you!" the demon added, snapping Connor's head back to glare at Teagan. "Remove them! I command it!"

And, with those orders, the two guards drew steel and advanced on Leliana, the unarmed Jowan, and the still dazed Mordred, and Fergus found himself face to face with the hollow eyes of his best friend.

* * *

_Thursdays no longer make practical update days, so I'm pushing updates to Saturdays._

_Thank you as always to all of my reviewers. It really helps, believe me._


	12. Landscape

**Chapter Twelve: Landscape**

_A scrap of parchment slid under the door of Anders's bedroom with some phrases scribbled out into oblivion:_

_I didn't want to leave like this but_

_The world is changing and there are things I need to do_

_I didn't want to drag anyone into_

_Nathaniel's gone to Denerim. Follow him if you like but don't follow me. I've gone to do what I should have done at the start, just as he believes he is. I owe you my life for Harper's Ford and I've left most of what we brought from the Peak in my room for you. _

_Take care of yourself, and of Hunter. __I'll be back for him, but__ I'm riding hard and going somewhere that is no place for a Mabari, even one as brave and loyal as he._

_E_

* * *

"That's good quality," said the dwarven merchant as Eliante ran her fingers over a suit of cured leather armor. "You won't find better work between here and Jader now that Orzammar's under lock and key."

"The layering is rather obvious," she remarked doubtfully, her thumb grazing an exposed metal stud. "I've seen more subtle work."

The dwarf shrugged. "It's Orlesian-made. Those top-siders rarely do anything without a purpose, so I'll wager it was done deliberate, to show off the craftsmanship."

"How much?"

"Not a sovereign under twenty."

"I can't imagine there being much demand for a human-made –and sized –suit in Orzammar. Seventeen."

"Well, you aren't going to be able to get in to find out. Twenty."

"Eighteen."

"Fine. Now on with you. I'm expected in West Hill."

Fishing around the pouches at her belt for her coin purse, she commented, "And I'm not going to find comparable unless I ride all the way to…" She hesitated before abruptly changing topics. "What's the deal in Orzammar?"

"King's dead," was the short reply as the coins dropped into the merchant's palm. "Don't ask me how or why; there's a reason I left. Sodding politics."

"You won't find much improvement out here," she told him. "Our king's dead too."

"Oh, I know," he replied as she hooked the parcel containing her new purchase to her horse's saddle. "Sodding politics," he said again as she swung her leg up and over the horse's back.

"Sodding politics," she agreed with a ghost of a smirk and kicked her heels, urging her mare into a canter and taking off down the low road.

The sun had risen in the east, as it was bound to do, so she had turned her horse's head to the left of the light in her eyes and urged the mare onward. They had long since outstripped Bann Loren's domain and, by her reckoning as she surveyed the unfamiliar lay of the land, were well-situated within the borders of the bannorn belonging to Bann… Franderel, she thought, not quite with certainty but not quite a guess either. Yes, that was him, with the fortress of West Hill; Aldous had always griped on her constant confusion with the castle some called haunted and the domain of her father's friend Arl Wulff. (Her defense had always been that Fergus couldn't keep it straight either.) The bann liked… paintings? Collected tapestries? And he usually stayed at his estate in Denerim?

This was the part where she usually looked to Nathaniel who, for all of his years abroad, seemed more up to date with the political climate than she. But Nathaniel wasn't here anymore. He had moved onto his own devices and left her to hers. She was on her own, completely so, the only and total mistress of her destiny for the first time with no one's good opinion to worry over. It was both frightening and yet a relief and she decided that it lent her new perspective on a time when she had not been so free.

Who had kept the letters from her?

Her immediate answer was the obvious one and it came almost automatically to the forefront of her mind. Rendon Howe had broken off the betrothal, or had ordered his son to; he was clearly the one most invested in cutting off the attachment, especially since it had become quite evident that he had harbored a deep loathing for the Couslands.

But something nagged at her as she maneuvered Dancer around a fallen tree obstructing their way. What really did the Howes have to gain by jilting Highever? All they really did was embarrass the Cousland heiress and lose an opportunity to inherit the Teyrnir; was humiliating a rival worth so much? Did Rendon Howe's hate really run so deep as to stand counter to his family's objectives?

The memory of the smell of smoke had barely crept up on her when Eliante decided that it did.

But had Howe really have the power to intercept all of those letters? A year and a half of correspondence lost… and why would Nathaniel send his messages by way of the father he had run away from? He was many things but he wasn't stupid…

So who had kept the letters from her?

Her parents had had the access certainly, but once again what did they have to gain from doing so? Maybe they had just wanted to save her from more pain, but they had never been ones to lie to their children; unlike the relationships she had observed between other noble parents and their offspring, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had always treated Fergus and Eliante like small adults, miniatures of themselves. Did they fear that the letters would make her angry or cause her to sink into new despair? She had experienced both regardless; what was the trick to deceiving her then?

"_She— she was going to marry some Orlesian fop, I heard!"_

Or maybe there had never been any letters to begin with.

The urgency with which this new theory surfaced surprised her, as did the sense of conviction that accompanied it. If Nathaniel had never put pen to paper for her sake, what did he have to gain by claiming otherwise? Her sympathy? Her guilt? What did either of those matter, now that he had left her anyway? And why wouldn't he have written to her, if he had cared for her as he had once claimed to?

But that was an entirely different question that probably demanded attention unto itself, attention she was not currently willing to give.

She was in the shadow of a mountain. The light that had once blinded her was now at her back. Her legs hurt and her back ached; she had never ridden so hard for so long so often, and the last month –closer to a month and a half –since the sack had taken a toll on a young gentlewoman who had ridden only for leisure in the past and had only slept outdoors in the comfortable warmth of chosen nights in high. The days were now gradually becoming colder and the nights longer. It was threatening to be an early winter for Ferelden. Eliante wondered idly how darkspawn did in the snow as she nudged Dancer off of the beaten path, seeking out suitable shelter.

Thank the Maker that those creatures were only in the south, although she hardly required reminding that men could prove to be just as monstrous.

She didn't know why she thought so much on it, lingered on the pain, cursed the villain over and over again even though it did no immediate good. Part of her wished she could stop. Part of her wished she could forget. Part of her wished she could do as Nathaniel did and blame exterior forces of evil for the betrayal of a man whose son she had once wished to marry.

But how could she when she was surrounded by her father's world, or would be once she crossed the Bannorn's territory line after the next morning's ride? These were Cousland woods and Cousland rivers; the people who made their homes here had been protected by generations of Cousland lords and ladies. How could she when in every puddle of still water, every gleam of her daggers' steel, she saw her father's blue-gray eyes, her mother's delicately boned features? As a Cousland –the last of the Couslands –it was her _duty _to protect them from a greedy rivaling lord, even if she hadn't the slightest idea _how_.

That was not quite true. She _did _know how to go about this. It was the reason she had left Hunter and Anders behind. It was the reason she now smoothed the crumpled and torn map out against the slightly platform of her knee, backlit by the measly flames her meager skills with tinder and flint had procured in the darkness. It was the reason she was grateful that Nathaniel had decided to leave her.

"_Why does so much depend on the Archdemon?" she had asked when the news of the encroaching Blight had first reached Highever. "It's just a giant bloody dragon, isn't it? One that's been corrupted."_

_Bryce Cousland had looked up from the letters on his study's desk and shrugged at his daughter. "The Grey Wardens insist that it's something more, although they're remarkably tightlipped about why," he answered. "The legends say that it's a Tevinter old god, one that the darkspawn awakened, but that doesn't much help anybody in a battle. In fact, I think it's not something you _want _to tell your men; it's like to send them scattering, the idea that they're facing something that once rivaled the Maker himself. Don't worry about it, birdy; it's for the Grey Wardens to handle."_

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps she should be doing as Nathaniel insisted and leaving the matter to the Landsmeet. But if what Bann Loren had said was true and Arl Howe was under the Regency's protection…

_Fergus had been more informative on a practical level. "Yeah, it's a giant bloody dragon," he had agreed as they stood in the stable yard, watching his hunter being outfitted with a new saddle for wartime, "but it's a giant bloody dragon who's thinking for all of the itty bitty annoying darkspawn because they're all too bloodthirsty and simple-minded to talk strategy. So it has to go. Cut off the snake's head and all of the other enemies will be easier to put down. Leave it too late and the head will be somewhere nobody can get at." _

Except she could get there. She could get to Vigil's Keep where perhaps no one else could. But how long would this window of opportunity last before the snake slithered away to some other hole in the ground? There were no conveniently placed Deep Roads entrances below the royal palace, for example.

The map was in her hands. But the fire was within arm's reach. It was so tempting, to extend her hand release the sorry bit of parchment into the flames. No one could blame her for not trying if she had no map. Even if they knew she knew the entrance locations, no one would blame her for not wanting to chance the Deep Roads without a guide. No one would even know she had had the map in her possession to begin with. No one would know if the ashes blew away in the wind once the fire was out.

The shadows of the trees stretched over her, darkness splayed out like skeletal fingers against the beaten dirt and bushes, the blackness heavy and deep. Her shoulders seemed to bow beneath their weight as she slid the map back into her jacket where it would be safe and sound.

Stretching out a foot, she snuffed out the flames with the sole of her boot and curled up beneath her cloak with a pack for pillow, wishing for a happier time where there were no shadows she could not banish by drawing open the curtains of a window and reflections she could not run from or smash.

* * *

"_The Maker has turned His gaze away from me. I swear it's so."_

_She laughed softly, falling to the ground beside him, sliding her legs under her. "Get grass stains on those clothes and it'll be the worse for you," she said, twisting the stem of a dandelion between her fingers._

"_Not as bad as you'll get it if she sees you running around in trousers with your shirt half-unbuttoned," Nathaniel pointed out as he folded his arms up behind his head, gray eyes gazing at a blue sky peeking between the leaves of the overhanging tree branches._

"_Hardly!" she laughed. "She's your grandmother, not mine, and she won't give a fig over what I'm wearing. Even if she does say something, your father will only say something along the lines of me being my father's daughter and a little spitfire and one to watch and all of those indulgences. Besides, I'm no Howe and I'm no Bryland either. I have no reason to fear the matriarch's wrath."_

"_You say that now," he replied, a slight smirk curling up at the corners of his mouth, "but just you wait."_

"_And yet Leonas always seems a reasonable fellow," Eliante commented. "I wonder if the talent for unyielding criticism skipped a generation. Habren is certainly unpleasant enough."_

"_I haven't heard a conversation between my mother and father that didn't end in screaming their lungs out in a while," he remarked, closing his eyes. "Maybe it's just limited to female descendants."_

"_That's not fair! Delilah is perfectly lovely."_

"_Only from what you can tell. You only get glimpses when she's not hiding from your brother. She used to put beetles in my blankets."_

"_Well, you were perfectly awful when you were a child," Eliante declared. "Delilah's not the only one who remembers the dismemberment of Miss Maggie with terror and loathing."_

"_It wasn't a permanent dismemberment! I left the arms and legs where she could conveniently find them, if you remember. Adria patched her up just right in the end."_

"_And created a patchwork monster, sewing up the limbs you mutilated. Perfectly awful."_

"_And now I'm a perfect gentleman?" he asked, smirking still._

"_Not a gentleman, no," she answered, a small smile on her lips, her eyes studying the geography of his face while she had the chance to do so without being observed. After a moment, she looked away, clearing her throat before asking as though his answer didn't matter at all: "Do you think it will happen?"_

"_Do I think what will happen?"_

"_What they're talking about," she answered, looking across the fields to the walls of Vigil's Keep within, no doubt, their parents were conspiring while their siblings wondered how their respective brother and sister had managed to escape. "Do you think it will?"_

"_Maybe," Nathaniel replied, his tone and face inscrutable. "And if it does?"_

"_I don't know," she said._

"_You don't know?" he repeated, disbelieving._

"_I don't know," she said again, less thoughtful in tone, more deliberately provocative. "I suppose I could tolerate it."_

"_You could tolerate it?" he repeated her words once again, still incredulous. Opening his eyes and sitting up, he glared at her, blades of grass in his dark hair. "Marriage to me would be tolerable?"_

"_In my defense," she protested at his glaring, "marriage lasts for a very, very long time, in theory."_

"_In theory," he remarked ironically, "it's a permanent commitment."_

"_But not one that we get to make for ourselves."_

_He shrugged and didn't respond. She shifted her position, folding her legs in front of her and leaning on elbow against one knee, bracing chin against palm. "It's strange," she remarked, gazing toward the city of Amaranthine, barely perceptible in the distance, "I heard one of the elven servants complain to another that humans got to choose their spouses whereas that's left to the elder of the Alienage and the parents for them. We're just as limited as they are and yet we're among the richest landowners in the country."_

"_Our parents are among the richest landowners in the country," he corrected, "not us. Unlike Habren, we don't have the benefit of being the sole heir apparent. As for the elves, their way of life is all about tradition and living apart. Between that and the restrictions cities put on them, the alienages don't exactly lend themselves to attracting new blood. So marriage is a giant chess game to them: say the Highever alienage doesn't have a blacksmith. The solution becomes to have one of the daughters there marry the blacksmith's son from the Denerim alienage."_

"_So my point is made," Eliante said, somewhat smug. "They're just like us: marrying to please their parents and preserve a way of life that isn't particularly practical."_

_Nathaniel looked at her oddly for a moment, but that moment passed and he nodded, saying, "I suppose so."_

_The wind moved through the branches above them and clouds passed overhead. Nathaniel lay back again and closed his eyes. She watched him for a moment and then leaned back beside him, resting her hands on her stomach and gazing at the sunlight filtered green through the leaves. "They'll be wondering where we are."_

"_I've decided I don't care anymore. If the Maker smiles on me, He smiles on me. If He doesn't, I'll just stay out of the path of His, or my grandmother's, wrath." _

"_It could be worse," she said thoughtfully after a few long moments of quiet. "It must be difficult for the elves, leaving everything to wed a stranger. At least we know each other."_

"_At least," he agreed._

"_You're just lucky it's not Habren. Think of the poor traumatized puppies infesting the stables."_

_He rolled his eyes with a snort of derision. "She'll probably go to Vaughn. Maybe Teagan if he's unlucky or drunk, but most likely Vaughn. And they'll be oh so happy together, the little sadists." _

"_And we wouldn't be?" Eliante asked quietly, curious._

_Nathaniel didn't respond for a long moment. Finally: "I didn't say that."_

"_But you make it sound like you don't want to say otherwise."_

"_Do my parents look happy to you?"_

_She didn't have anything to say to that, so he gave her a hard look and continued. "My father hates my mother, and she him. You know why I'm hiding out here like a coward and a fool like I do every time her family comes to call, and I know perfectly well that my father would like very much to do the same. Does that speak of marital bliss to you?"_

_Eliante turned her head away, looking through the blades of grass at eye-level: a miniature forest where she was a giantess. The vantage point gave her strange comfort: a respite from a world where she had little choice even in what she wore to dinner. _

"_I can't tell with my parents," she said suddenly. "Part of me thinks that they do care genuinely for one another but I wonder sometimes if they only do so because Fergus was born so soon after the Occupation ended and they married, and then I came along soon after. Or maybe it wasn't even for the children's sake; maybe they just came to the conclusion that it would be easier if they decided to like each other and everything else, whatever 'true' affection they have for each other, has just been built out of convenience's sake."_

"_Sounds like a marriage of tolerance," he commented dryly, "but still better than my father's. I wasn't born so long after Fergus, you know. That just means that 'the sake of the children' wasn't enough of a saving grace for mine."_

"_But then at least your parents are honest with each other," she replied, sitting up again._

"_Fair point," he agreed, sitting up as well. "I suppose this just means that we both have extraordinarily bad examples to go off of."_

"_But do we even want to end up just like our parents?" she asked, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning her cheek against them, her eyes wide._

_Slowly, Nathaniel shook his head. "Not me," he replied. _

_Eliante nodded before hesitating. He raised his eyebrows at her pause. Then, slowly, tentatively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips briefly against his._

_When she pulled back and opened her eyes, he had raised his eyebrows once again. "What'd you do that for?" he asked._

_She flushed slightly, her mouth setting into a stubborn line. "I wanted to see if I could," she replied, biting down on her lip, crimson splashed across her cheekbones. "I wanted to see if you'd let me."_

"_I didn't stop you," he replied, lips curling into a broad grin._

"_No," she agreed. "You didn't." There was a pause where they merely looked at each other, before Eliante pointed out, "I'm not stopping you either."_

_Chuckling, he leaned forward, cupping her chin in his hand and kissing her softly as the sun went down and Grandmother Bryland and Eleanor Cousland no doubt griped at the errant offspring's disappearance just in time for dinner while Rendon and Bryce smirked at the women's worry, sipped wine, and made the next move in their ongoing chess game._

* * *

Sharp pain burst in the side of her ribs as a gruff voice ordered, "Get up."

Eliante's eyes flew open and half a dozen expletives pushed at the back of her mouth, begging utterance. Immediately, her mind went to the previous night: what had been her mistake? Had she left the fire burning? Did she not cover her tracks? Had she left Dancer tied too tightly and the mare had whinnied complaint? Had she camped too close to the main road? Had it been any combination of the above?

The man kicked her again and this time she realized his boot was armored. "Get up," he repeated. "I'm not going to ask again."

"I know most people seem to enjoy being kicked to wake up in the morning," she said, the words seeming to slip from her mouth by default, "I'm just choosy."

He was unimpressed. "Wyatt," he called over to his companion, "she's not budging."

"Then make her budge," Wyatt snapped. "She's some chit of a girl, not an ogre."

"Wait!" she started as the still unnamed soldier dug his hands beneath her arms and yanked her to her feet, squirming to get out of his grip. "On whose authority are you doing this?"

"Talks like a noble," said the soldier. "Oi, Wyatt, d'you think this could be her?"

"I don't know," he replied gradually, leaning forward to peer into her face. Wyatt had a badly healed scar bisecting his nose and looked to have not shaven in weeks but in his slow skepticism, he was beautiful to her. "Doesn't look much like the picture and you'd figure they'd get somebody who knew her t'do the likeness."

"Like there'd be anyone left who could properly do it after what happened at Highever," guffawed the man holding her. He shook her slightly as he laughed, which she didn't much appreciate but did not voice her objection. _Dead in the water, _she thought numbly. _I'm dead in the water. Like shooting fish in a barrel, Fergus would say._

Wyatt shrugged. "We're marching toward the Keep anyway," he said. "Might as well take her along with us."

"Pretty piece, besides," added the other soldier with a grin, making Eliante's skin crawl. Instantly, she kicked backwards and up, stumbling forward when the man crumpled backward and released his hold on her arms. Snarling, Wyatt lunged forward, his movements still not quick enough to save her nails from raking across his face.

"Hellcat," he growled, snatching one wrist and then the other, holding them both in one hand as he backhanded her across the face. "To the Keep, she goes. The Arl would be able to recognize the Cousland brat, if no one else could."

Moments later, she found her hands bound rather securely behind her back and a greenish bruise speckling slowly across her cheekbone, walking forward along the side of the road behind Wyatt while the other one –Jer, he was called by his comrade –led Dancer along behind, Eliante's pack still tied securely to the mare's saddle. She bit down on her lower lip, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. Thank the Maker the buffoons hadn't already gone through her pack, though she doubted their curiosity would wait for the entirety of the march to Vigil's Keep.

Well, she had to remind herself that the castle had been her eventual intended destination, even if this wasn't the means of travel she would have preferred. They hadn't tied her hands _too _tightly and only at the wrists; maybe if she waited for nightfall…

"Something coming down the road, Jer," said Wyatt, pausing in his trek and squinting. "Looks like a wagon."

"Merchant?" asked Jer, pausing also. "Maybe we can sell some of her kit and pocket the change."

But as the wagon trundled along closer, it became clear that it was hardly advertising to buy or sell. Pulled by a pair of oxen, it nonetheless drew up beside the soldiers and Eliante and paused, the pair seated upon the bench in front looking curiously down at the three.

"An elf," stated Wyatt disdainfully. "What merchant has an elf lead his team?"

"A very clever merchant," rejoined the elf. Eliante glanced up at his voice and registered the accent as being none too far off of Oriana's, "and one that can count on the fact that brutes such as yourselves wouldn't count on an elf leading a team carting around anything special."

The pale haired woman seated beside him laughed and the elf smiled. Wyatt and Jer were less indulgent. "A foreign elf," scoffed the former, "and educated. You see something new every day. Well, if you aren't merchants, what business do you have traveling these parts? Did you register at the outpost?"

"We have clearance," was the smooth response. "We're traveling players, you see."

"Players?" repeated Jer, none too bright. "What do you play at?"

The elf smiled down at him and sunlight illuminated the swirling tattoo decorating the side of his face. "You could say that we're of the love and blood school. But you are clearly fine gentlemen yourselves. Might I inquire as to what business you have traveling these parts? And with such a lovely companion, I might say?"

"They apprehended me," said Eliante quickly, "unlawfully, I might add."

"That would explain the rope. Might I ask why then, if unlawfully?"

"They think I look like somebody on a bit of parchment," she replied, banking on the fact that the likeness on the poster did not in fact look like her. "And I'm not her, honest. I'm from Redcliffe. I was traveling to Denerim to see my sister… Sophia."

The elf studied her very closely, something strange and guarded passing over his handsome features –because he was indeed handsome, although elves did not attract her as elven women seemed to draw the attention of so many human men –eyes seeming to linger on the bruise beneath her right eye. "Ah," he said slowly, deliberately, "I see. Well, gentlemen, it would seem to me that it's cruel play to accost a lady on suspicion alone."

"What do you care?" Wyatt snapped.

"And what do we care about what an elf cares, huh?" rejoined Jer, not very cleverly.

"Funny that you should say that," replied the elf rather calmly, gently extending an arm as though to take a bow. The movement made no sense to Eliante, especially since he was seated to begin with, until she heard the whispering of moving metal near her ear and Jer's scream of pain from behind her.

As the soldier's cries to pain dissolved into incoherent gurgles, Eliante darted backward, leaping over the twitching Jer to land lightly at Dancer's side, pushing a saddlebag aside to reveal the unsheathed dagger tied to the saddle. Hastily, she rubbed the blade against the rope at her wrists as Wyatt charged the wagon with sword drawn. As the rope came undone in her hands, she heard the second soldier scream.

Quickly, she swung up onto the mare's back, watching the travelers on the wagon's front warily, ready to flee rather than fight. The blonde woman was standing now, electricity crackling between her fingers, and she slowly sat down as the wagon's back door burst open and several men came out from within, armed and ready.

"What's happening?" said one man, armed with a pair of knives, as another loaded a crossbow.

"We have two bodies in need of concealment," was the elf's reply before he turned his gaze on Eliante, noting her tenseness. "Fair lady," he said to her, "I assure you that I have no designs on you. No violent ones, anyway."

"Players?" she said disbelievingly, scoffing. "Some actors you are."

"Of the love and blood school," the elf replied slickly as, grumbling, his fellow 'players' lugged the bodies –one bloodstained, one slightly charred –into the underbrush at the roadside, "as I said before. You've seen the blood; perhaps I could interest you in the other? After all, it's not every day one encounters such a beauteous creature in dire need of rescue, no?"

"An… interesting offer," she replied, color rising to her face despite herself, "but one I must decline. I have an… appointment to keep."

"With your sister Sophia," said the elf gravely although his eyes twinkled.

"Indeed. She has been expecting me for ages. But tell me: how far to Vigil's Keep?"

"I thought she lived in Denerim."

"I have a package to pick up for the baby."

He smiled and there seemed to be a secret in it. "I see. It took us… how long did it take us?"

"Three days," replied the woman –the mage –on his right. "Give or take."

"And I trust that the Arl is in good health," she found the courage to ask, keeping her gaze and tone level and nonchalant.

"Blossoming under the weight of his good fortune," was the response and the secret smile broadened. "We had the honor of preforming for him not four nights ago. It was quite the honor, our summons."

She nodded, ill at ease with this company of individuals. "I thank you and wish you safe journey then."

"Same to you, _hermosa_. It was my pleasure to be of assistance."

With another nod, she spurred Dancer forward and past the wagon as the two men finished the disposal of Jer and Wyatt. With a single glance backward, she took her leave of the elf, the mage, and their traveling band of players and thought of the world so easily categorized into love and blood.

* * *

_Some dialogue purloined from party chat in Awakenings (between Nathaniel and Sigrun and Nathaniel and Velanna)._

_The 'love and blood' is a reference to Tom Stoppard's play "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead". The full quote is as follows: "__We're more of the love, blood and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can't give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They're all blood, you see." I find that it very much suits the world of Thedas and the events of DA:O._

_Thank you as always to my reviewers. You all make me so happy and I do get extraordinarily good ideas from your thoughts and feedback._


	13. Other Demons

**Chapter Thirteen: Other Demons**

It had been several years since Fergus and Teagan had sparred against each other, but it seemed that the both of them had been in constant practice in recent weeks. As the abomination formerly known as Connor Guerrin scurried from the chamber, Leliana's arrows whizzed across the room and embedded themselves in the visor-like slit in one of the advancing possessed guard's helmet and Fergus brought his blade upward to deflect Teagan's somewhat sloppy opening strike.

"Come on, Teagan," he said, grunting with the effort of block the blow. "After all these years being under Eamon's thumb, are you really going to let some demon do your thinking for you?"

Teagan said nothing in return, only disengaged and charged forward once more, forcing Fergus to roll to the right and out of harm's way, albeit landing hazardously near the steps up to the dais. He glanced upward and saw that Isolde, whimpering, had braced herself behind the massive chair at center stage. While some idle part of his mind noted that _his _father had never commissioned a grand chair that was all but a throne for Highever Castle, Fergus was more preoccupied with leaping to his feet and lunging up the steps, trying to gain the higher ground. Isolde let out a shrill shriek at combat coming so near and scrambled into the corner behind her. He saw this with distracted approval: if she couldn't do anything to help matters, at least she was staying out of the way.

Mordred, still seemingly weak and therefore keeping back as well, managed to conjure sparking chains of energy across the room. With a horrible scream, the second possessed guard collapsed into spasms, twitching uncontrollably as the lightning ran its course through his bones. There were two enemies dispatched; that left… Teagan.

The possessed bann lunged forward again and Fergus barely missed losing a great deal of blood and probably his life as he threw himself backward to avoid getting his throat sliced open. Dimly, looking up at the crazed hazel eyes of his best friend once more, Fergus realized that Teagan was really trying to kill him and there was nothing in Fergus's power to counteract the demon's influence.

"Mordred!" he shouted, scrambling backward to retrieve his fallen sword. "Mordred, do something!"

Almost instantly, it seemed as though a cloud of dark energy, a miniature miasma of black smoke and sparking light swallowed up Teagan's features. Screaming as though locked in a nightmare, the bann collapsed to his knees and then forward, writhing in seeming agony.

From the other end of the hall came a familiar female voice, barely concealing smugness beneath a tone of bored superciliousness. "Can someone _please _get Alistair off of me? He has been whining and harping on me like one of your mangy hounds ever since you fools decided to storm the castle without us."

Fergus dropped to his knees and rolled over the still twitching Teagan, hazel eyes still screwed shut, as Isolde ran forward from her hiding places, moaning, "Oh, Teagan. What did you do to him, you –you witch?!"

"A touch of mindless horror to break him out of the possession," answered Morrigan rather clinically with an elegant shrug as Alistair rushed forward as well and Leliana joined the party at Teagan's side. Fergus glanced up at their approach and distractedly noted that the blood splattered across her armor and smudged across her nose did not match the profile of lay sister. Mordred and Jowan stayed put near the door to the hallways, the former still pale and sweating. "Someone had to do something before we were forced to kill the poor fool."

Sten meanwhile examined the bodies of the two slain guards. "A pitiful assault," he declared coldly. "If the witch had been able to do to these guards as she did to the noble, there would have been two more men to lend you aid against the Blight. As it is… wasteful."

"He made it very clear that everyone in the castle was disposable save the Arl," Mordred pointed out, coming forward with shaky steps to defend himself against the much larger qunari. "Do the qunari not comprehend the meaning of expendable casualties?"

"Expendable, yes," was the curt reply, "Disposable, no. There is no such thing as a 'disposable' resource. You use these words and you think they mean the same thing. They do not."

"Can't you do something?" Alistair snapped, glaring at Morrigan and gesturing to the still writhing Teagan, ignoring the mage and the qunari soldier.

With a dramatic sigh acknowledging her being extremely put upon, the dark-haired apostate extended one arm out toward the bann, her palm tingling with energy of a paler hue, and dispelled the enchantment on Teagan. "Contented?"

"Very," answered Fergus for Alistair as Teagan began to cough and his eyes opened. Morrigan sniffed in return.

"Thank the Maker," breathed Isolde as her brother-in-law slowly sat up. "Are you alright, Teagan?"

"Better," allowed the man in question hoarsely, "now that my mind is my own again. I apologize for the attack. I can't believe that a demon could have… could have…"

"Could have made you dance about like an Orlesian clown?" Fergus finished, grinning wickedly despite the somber mood. "Nah, I always knew you had it in you."

Teagan permitted himself a quick laugh at the comment as Alistair and Fergus helped him back up to his feet. Looking to Morrigan, he said, "And it appears I am in your debt as well. I thank you."

She waved her hand as though his debt was not the greatest thing she had ever been offered. Isolde however turned on Morrigan with something other than thanks. "You did something to him," she accused, yet her tone was something more desperate than accusatory. "You did something to remove the…. enchantment… the curse... the…"

"Possession," supplied Mordred in a tone too dry to be genuinely helpful.

"Please," the arlessa shot back at him, "I am currently attempting to ignore your presence. Both of your presences," she amended, eyes looking to Jowan and appraising him somehow even more harshly. "Accursed mages…"

"You had better adjust that attitude, madam," said Morrigan mockingly, "considering that you're begging aid from a 'witch' and your son appears to be an 'accursed mage' as well."

Isolde's mouth dropped agape at her tone but Teagan cut in before the arlessa of Redcliffe could do further damage. "Isolde, please," he said, "think of Connor." To the Grey Wardens, he said, "But I see where she was going with that. Please, is there any way you could do to Connor what you did to me to break the… possession?"

"I do not believe so," replied Jowan, taking a step forward as Morrigan shrugged. Mordred merely shrugged as well, his eyes drifting away to seemingly examine the drapery. "The control is more… direct and the possession has gone on for too long. Anything we could do with our resources would only be temporary and would not dispel the demon permanently. But you cannot keep thinking of Connor as himself anymore because he isn't. He's become an…"

"A what?" Mordred's gray-green eyes suddenly became disillusioned with the curtains and shot to Jowan, gaze hard.

"An abomination," finished Jowan, not meeting his friend's eyes.

Mordred's mouth twisted but he said nothing in response. Isolde moved toward the doorway the possessed Connor had exited through as though her body alone would stop any of them from rushing forward to run her son through. "No," she said firmly. "I will not allow it. Eamon would not allow it."

"Eamon would see Redcliffe safe," said Teagan but he sounded unsure even as he spoke the words.

"Connor is Redcliffe to him," countered Isolde. "He's our only child and our only heir."

"Not if he's a mage," Alistair pointed out, "not that I'm eager to… Not that I'm suggesting we should… I don't think the answer is to…"

"Kill a child," intoned Leliana softly and the former Templar nodded, looking sick to his stomach at the thought.

"This argument is pointless," said Sten quietly from behind Morrigan. "Killing one for the good of the many is not callous; it is sense."

"Would you do it?" demanded Alistair, rounding on the qunari.

"Yes."

"Oh." Alistair blinked.

Fergus had been quiet all the while but his silence had not been idle. "You mentioned something about a lack of resources," he said to Jowan. "What resources would those be?"

"Well, Lyrium," he answered, "or… blood."

"How much blood?" asked Morrigan.

Jowan flushed. "It's not something you can weigh in cups," he said. "It'd be… well, it'd be a person. And someone would have to go into the Fade to confront the demon, not easily accomplished."

"No, it's not," agreed Mordred quietly, "and the Circle is loath to spend so much lyrium to save a single person, as are the Templars."

"But we could ask," pointed out Alistair, "couldn't we?"

"Weren't we going to the Circle anyway?" added Leliana.

"I doubt the demon will remain idle in the meantime," said Jowan, a crease between his eyebrows. "But if you were quick and took a boat some of the way maybe…"

"Then that's what we'll do," said Fergus decidedly and without delay. He glanced at Mordred belatedly.

The warden-commander nodded, face inscrutable. "That's what we'll do," he agreed.

* * *

Despite it being his suggestion in part, Fergus hated boats. He hated the infernal constant rocking back and forth; he hated the musty odor and the seemingly ever-damp surfaces. He hated the claustrophobia and stuffiness of the cramped cabins below deck. At camp, at least one could walk away and achieve some distance from Alistair's snoring, Mordred's unsettling presence even in sleep, Morrigan's complaining, Sten's watchfulness bordering on paranoia. On a boat, even the rather substantial one Teagan had managed to claim for them, there were less opportunities for escape and they were few and far between.

He wouldn't have minded Teagan's company perhaps, even if they would have nothing to discuss that was not loaded with ulterior meanings whether obviously or discreetly, but he had been left behind at Redcliffe with Jowan and Isolde, to monitor Connor in the time it took to fetch the Circle. Teagan was the last person with which he had discussed Oriana voluntarily; the Orlesian girl in the underground passage and her incessant prodding did not count.

"_Save it," he had said quickly. "In truth, I'm trying not to think about it. Keeps me from wanting to punch every wall I see." _

He was halfway up the narrow and steep stairs to the deck and the night air above before he could begin to curse himself for being so callous, so cavalier, trying to turn his family's deaths into a joke.

The eastern shores of Lake Calenhad were obscured in mist, thick and heavy. The world could be on fire and they would not be able to tell. Not that you always could tell. It was as Teagan had said the day before as he gazed up at Redcliffe Castle; it looked so peaceful, as though everyone was just asleep. Maybe that was the case. The world was on fire and everyone who could do something about it was asleep. After all, he had heard no reports of any nobles –any acclaimed friends of his father –rising up at the butchering of the Couslands and even Teagan after making some kind of public stand against Loghain had merely returned to Redcliffe at earliest opportunity, where his presence had been needed, no argument, but still…

"May I join you?" said Leliana's soft and somewhat musical voice from behind him. Without awaiting his assent, she slid up against the wooden railing beside him. "It's quiet," she commented, the light breeze twisting the lone slender braid in her hair with the other copper strands. "It's different than the usual nights at camp. More peaceful, like life in the chantry. It was a world suited for contemplation. It was lovely."

"And yet with all that peace and quiet, you decided to turn your focus to combat," Fergus replied skeptically. "Right."

She laughed softly. "You cannot imagine that I might have once led a life before the cloister? I never even took vows."

"And why not, if you liked it so much?"

She hesitated. "I thought I might, at one moment, multiple moments to be precise," Leliana replied, "but I wasn't sure. I spent two years in the Lothering chantry and I still wasn't sure. I didn't want to consign myself to a new game so soon after I had left another."

"So you decided that the Orlesian Game was in fact not all it was promised to be?"

He had not been certain what reaction he had expected, but it had not been a wry smile and shrug. "It was everything and nothing," Leliana answered, "and too much of either can prove exhausting. So I left after a time, in pursuit of a simpler life amongst my mother's people, until I found myself compelled to a new purpose."

"And that's your story," said Fergus, still skeptical as he gave her a sideways look.

"That's my story," she agreed cheerfully. "I have many other tales to tell, some more entertaining, within my repertoire. I also sing. Sometimes dance."

"And is that how you lulled your targets into a false sense of safety?" asked Fergus dryly. "You sang them to sleep?"

She giggled in response. "There are other, more intriguing ways to put a man to bed," she answered with a slight smile, "but you would be surprised. The bedroom is an intimate place and there is many a man who can be seduced by nothing more than a soothing voice and a soft hand against his forehead."

"And that would be when you slit their throats," he finished, "or did you slip poison into their wine beforehand?"

"I was an Orlesian bard, not an Antivan Crow," she pointed out. "Perhaps some players of the Game were willing to intimately end a life as well as gather reconnaissance, but not I. I preferred more delicate methods."

"Kindness then was your weapon, instead of poison," Fergus observed. "My wife once said that those were the two methods with which a woman should be deadly."

"And each is deadly in equal measure, if used properly. Your wife was an intelligent woman."

"She sometimes pretended otherwise," he replied quietly, "I never understood why, why she would allow someone to underestimate her so much. My mother was convinced for years that she was just a docile, pretty face."

"There is sometimes power in that, especially when living with your husband's mother, I would imagine," said Leliana with another smile.

"There were many things I didn't understand about her, in retrospect. Eight years of marriage and there were still little mysteries to unravel. And now…"

"I do not believe that they ever really leave," said Leliana softly, slipping slightly closer. He could feel her warmth beside him, even though there were a good few inches between their arms and shoulders. Out on the water, the air was colder, and her breath came out in little puffs of smoke in the night. "Just as I do not believe that the Maker has forsaken His children as the Chantry is like to preach. Why would you choose to forsake the people you love?"

He did not reply, merely gazed down into the water streaming past the boat's hull below. She looked at him, a little suspicious. "You can laugh," she said. "You didn't promise not to this time. Maker knows that the other Chantry sisters did when I volunteered my ideas."

"Why would I laugh?" he asked, surprisingly even himself with the honesty in his voice. "You're trying to offer me comfort and genuinely so. Why would I laugh?"

She smiled slowly, gaze dipping down to the water below also. "I once thought that I lived the life of the Game in the hope that others would one day sing of my deeds as I sing of Ser Aveline, of Flemeth and her bard and her warlord," Leliana remarked, smile turning slightly wry once more, "but you are not so different than those tales in truth. You are a man who has lost everything, and yet you are trying to set the world to rights with the Grey Wardens rather than seek vengeance."

"I would rather have vengeance," he commented, slightly brusque, "as you well know."

"And yet I do not see you abandoning the world to pursue it."

"And yet some might say that I am the lesser man for not doing so," he snapped. "Do not compare me to your stories. I am not cut from their cloth, nor is this world."

She stepped away from the railing at his turn of mood and the warmth she had brought dissolved with her moving. "I apologize," Leliana said quietly. "I did not mean to offend you."

Something in Fergus's gut twisted at the tone in her voice: it was neither reproving nor miffed as he might have expected, and that seemed to make it worse. "I know," he managed. "I know you did not mean to… I am sorry also. But I am not some target you can cajole into feeling something he cannot."

"And I am not so calculating that you can accuse me of doing such," she replied, still quiet. "I'll bid you good night then and be on my way."

The colloquialism did not have the weight it might have otherwise had; where exactly could she "be on her way" to on a boat? But nevertheless she was gone now and the night was quiet once more.

There was something exceedingly ominous about the fog. It had not been present before they had set off from the docks at Redcliffe; it had not yet swept in when the sun went down some hours ago. There was something cloying about it, something unnatural. It seemed to seep into the wood, the rigging above, Fergus's skin. He breathed in and it felt like liquid in his lungs.

He heard someone else breathing beside him, glanced in the sound's direction, and did a double-take. Mordred had appeared there, gazing out across the water, his arrival as unnoticeable as the light breeze that drifted across the lake. Eyes more grey than green, his robes seemed to billow slightly outward in the wind, making the warden-commander seem more wraith than man, as though he were some spirit conjured up with the fog. "You feel it too," said the mage without further preamble.

Fergus nodded, opened his mouth to reply, caught himself in a yawn, and nodded again. "What is it?" he asked.

"Someone's trying to put us to sleep," was the response. "Look at the crew."

And indeed it seemed that the sailors Teagan had "loaned" them –in truth, all the men had requested to take the Wardens north, escape the undead threat if only for a few nights –had all chosen to take a synchronized nap. Even Sten and Alistair, coming up from the below deck, appeared drowsy as they inhaled the fog. With alarm, Fergus looked quickly to the helmsman only to see Morrigan's unsettling golden eyes peering back at him through the darkness. Her mage-sense must have alerted her as well to the unnatural weather.

Across the length of the boat, a shadow swept across the prow and onto the forward mast, perching like a songbird on a tree branch. Fergus opened his mouth to give warning before the figure pulled the bow from its back and notched an arrow and he recognized the familiar shape of the weapon: Leliana. She crouched down, stock-still, like a carved figurehead designed to meet the waves as Alistair clumsily scaled the rigging above Morrigan and peered out onto the water. There was no need for his wave of warning; when the other vessel latched onto theirs, coming out of nowhere through the night, it hit the starboard side of the boat with an unmistakable thud.

Mordred and Fergus exchanged a glance. Pirates? Or could the demon at Redcliffe's influence spread so far? Regardless, they would not be caught unawares. Drawing in a long, deep breath, Mordred centered himself, planting his feet solidly against the deck and grasping the staff retrieved from his back with both hands. As he exhaled, he drove the base of the polished wood to the deck's surface and with his breath went all of the fog. The night returned to its previous clear state of being.

And they saw that they had been surrounded.

Their assailants numbered six. Fergus quickly did the math: one per. These were educated pirates, which made him doubt that they were such common criminals. Instantly, his mind darted to the encounter in the Kocari Wilds, the assassins dressed as darkspawn that had lured him and his men into near-death for himself and certain death for the rest. But he quickly told himself that he was being paranoid; assassin such as those and these were not cheap, he should not have such a high regard for himself. After all, the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever, the bluest blood in the kingdom probably, had been slaughtered by common soldiers…

"The Grey Wardens and their allies die here!" shouted a lethally armed elf near the prow of the boat, unsheathing wicked-looking knives.

Not him in particular then. That made for a refreshing change of pace. Or perhaps he had merely been thrown into the lump sum of "Grey Warden allies." If so, he was slightly miffed. Oh well. He shouldn't take these matters too personally, Fergus decided as he lunged forward, his blade an extension of his arm, and rightly skewered the closest enemy through the gut.

Leliana let loose one arrow, which buried itself in the heart of its intended target. She then capered lithely across the narrow prow with acrobatic grace, turning a quick cartwheel to retrieve the unleashed arrow and set it to her bowstring once more. This exhibition was something so beyond her otherwise already displayed skills, and Fergus caught both Sten and Alistair looking on in astonished surprise (well, as close as Sten could get to showing astonishment, which was pretty much limited to one slightly elevated pale eyebrow). For his part, Fergus wondered what brought on this show. Did she believe that now that her past had been revealed to him, the act was up and there was no use in playing the wide-eyed Chantry sister now? But the others –Mordred and Alistair and the like –didn't yet know. Had she assumed that he would offer up her secrets to them at first opportunity? He felt offended at her having such little faith in his discretion and loyalty.

What loyalty did he owe an Orlesian bard, especially one that had tried to stop him from punching Teagan when Teagan had needed very much to be punched?

Her second shot was not so perfect. As the arrowhead embedded itself in the wooden facing of the main cabin's door, Sten advanced on the missed target –a pale haired woman who would have been lovely if not for the way her lips were drawn back into a positively feral snarl –swinging his greatsword in wide arcs that she barely avoided and much of the rigging did not.

The elf who had cried out the attack was caught in a deadly dance with Mordred and Morrigan as partners. The two mages tossed lightning back and forth at each other as though playing at a parlor trick with the assassin caught in the middle, dodging the streaks of energy with acrobatics to rival Leliana's or reflecting the crackling chains with his twin blades, the runes etched in the metal shimmering in the moonlight.

Fergus knocked another man off the port side and instantly Leliana appeared at his arm, bow strung and armed, letting the arrow fly to pierce the overboard man's floundering body and end the sick and pitiful dance of a man trying to stay afloat in full armor. That was three down. He glanced across the deck and saw that Alistair had somehow managed to dispatch another enemy, the blood seeping into the rough wooden boards below. Four dead and none of his allies counted amongst them.

Across the deck, the rigging Sten's sword had severed was now on fire. The woman had seemingly been proven to be a mage and had retaliated against her hulking assailant with her Maker-given talent, but she could not outlast an extensively trained qunari soldier. In probable desperation, she reached out with one hand and closed her fingers around the tip of the greatsword, the edges slicing through gloves and flesh, blood dripping onto the deck, and unleashed a channel of electricity, the steel sword an effective conduit.

Sten hit the floor, smoking slightly. The mage shrieked in victory before being tackled from behind by an enormous spider. Fergus's mouth fell open a little at the sight and Leliana quickly predictably murmured some couplet or another of the Chant as the spider's fanged teeth sank deeply into the woman's neck. The enemy mage collapsed, twitching, and the elven assassin's head turned at the sight. "Deidre," he started, but Alistair leapt downward from an upper deck and firmly knocked the hilt of his sword against the assassin's head.

"That settles that," said the former Templar grimly, kicking the toe of his boot against the elf's side lightly. "Think there are more of them?"

Wordlessly, Leliana slipped away from Fergus's side and crossed the rigging to the other boat alongside theirs to presumably check, a quiet shadow in the moonlight. The spider scuttled behind some barrels, hidden from sight. There was a subtle sound, like the suction of air, and Morrigan stood up, shaking her loose dark hair away from her face, her usual scanty attire still clinging to her curves, like some water goddess emerging from the depths. Then she spat out onto the deck, shattering the illusion. "I suppose that you are all now irreversibly disgusted by my talents, no?"

Alistair did indeed appear as though he was going to be sick all over himself. "See to Sten," said Mordred, unfazed, crouching beside the elven assassin that had been the last to fall.

Morrigan looked over the fallen qunari rather dismissively, declaring, "He lives."

"As does this one," said Mordred quietly, standing and looking down on the unconscious elf.

Leliana reappeared as the rest of them began to gather around the last living enemy. "All clear," she confirmed. "Shall we cast off then?"

"We'd have to wake up the crew first," said Alistair, "and we still have to decide what to do about this one," he added, prodding the elf with the toe of his shoe once more. "Just do away with him?"

"I say we wake him up and discern his purpose," elected Morrigan from where she was crouched beside Sten, applying a poultice with a great show of deliberate effort. "You can always kill him later."

"True," said the former Templar. "Anyone got any of those spice things?"

"Salts," said Morrigan, rolling her eyes. "In my bag. Truly, the practical knowledge of the Templar Order is astonishing."

The salts were found and the assassin tied up in a series of complex knots that Fergus now did not want to know where Leliana had learned. None of them –not Alistair, not Fergus, and certainly not Mordred –seemed to have the sheer brute strength required to carry Sten down below deck, so the qunari remained where he had collapsed, covered by a starched white sail. "He's built up a pretty remarkable resistance to magic," Alistair had commented as they left him breathing deeply and steadily. "Makes me wonder how qunari mages are handled up north."

"I thought Templar training would entail knowing all things relating to mages," Fergus had responded, curious.

Alistair had shrugged. "You would think. I guess pretty much nobody knows much about the qunari to begin with though. I'm not even sure if there are qunari Grey Wardens anywhere."

It struck Fergus as did often these days that neither Alistair nor Mordred knew anything particularly useful about the ancient order they were sworn to. Once again, he found himself wondering if, not unlike the "darkspawn" assassins in the swamp, these men were only playing at Grey Wardens.

Coiled within the knots of rope, the assassin was stirring. The large and brilliantly hued eyes that characterized his race blinked hazily up at his captors. "I had rather thought I would wake up dead," he groaned, clearly still dazed, "but I would not be looking up at such angry faces, were that the case. Unless you are all dead as well. Then I would agree that you would have some cause for anger."

Alistair heaved a sigh. "Great. He's glib. And so very… Antivan."

Fergus glared at the ex-Templar, who colored and mouthed an apology in wordless response. Mordred folded his arms. "You'll find that we are perfectly willing to shuffle you off the mortal coil," said the young warden-commander, "alone. Although I'm sure your associates are awaiting your arrival."

"I see," said the assassin, and so he did, his gaze traveling about the deck and taking in the blood. The bodies had of course already been thrown over the side. "But if you're so eager in 'shuffling me off,' why wake me up at all?"

"We had questions for you," said Fergus, profoundly aware that he was stating the obvious.

The assassin squinted up at him in the moonlit darkness. "You seem familiar somehow. I can't quite place it… but if it is to be an interrogation, you had better be the one asking the questions. By all means, go on with it."

"Who sent you?" demanded Mordred. In his shadow, Leliana regarded their prisoner with an appraising gaze. Fergus caught her eye, but she merely gave him one of her inscrutable, sibylline shadows of a smile.

"If I may," replied the assassin, "let me save you some time, if you're just going to go through the usual routine. I am called Zevran –Zev to my friends."

"We're not your friends," corrected Morrigan loftily.

"That is not my disinclination at fault, o fair and deadly one," replied Zevran with a look kindred to a leer.

Mordred kicked him; whether it was in retaliation for the flirtation or just because he felt so inclined, Fergus couldn't say. "Who sent you?"

"Why, the Crows did of course. I suspect if you went up the hierarchy of people sending people far enough, you'd probably end up with one of the guildmasters. But I suspect that you're more interested in the person who paid for my services, so to speak. That's easy enough. I'm actually rather shocked you bright people haven't figured it out already. It would be Teyrn Loghain and Arl Howe. You can take your pick if you want one in particular to target in retaliation; they seemed to have equal stake in your demises."

"Was it the Grey Wardens they were interested," asked Mordred, "or the traitors' son?"

"My family was _not_ traitors and you and I both damn well know it. If anyone's a traitor, it's that slimy bastard Howe."

"Well, he's not likely to refer to himself as such," said the warden-commander, "but I'm rather sure that he's referring to you as such in a rather habitual and public manner. I would."

He heard Morrigan not bother to conceal a snicker. "Well then, go on and tell us who has the higher price on their head," said Fergus to Zevran. "I would in fact like to know if I don't have anything to gain with traveling with these 'Grey Wardens,' especially considering their commander's… condition as observed at Redcliffe."

"Maybe it would be best for us to part ways," said Mordred coolly.

"This is ridiculous!" Alistair snapped angrily. The rarity of such an heated outbreak in the Grey Warden caught everyone's attention. "If anyone's 'parting ways' now, there's nowhere to go but over the side of the boat, and I doubt any of you want to follow the bodies."

"I don't see what difference it makes," said Leliana quietly. "You both know that you're both wanted by the same two men, whatever the price. Safety in numbers."

Fergus met Mordred's eyes and found that the mage was as steel in determination as he. "I said I would help Teagan's family," he finally said evenly, "and I keep my promises." Thus he reminded Mordred that the Grey Wardens' voice would not carry so much weight with the Guerrin family should the last Cousland turn away from them.

And Mordred thus received the message. Turning back to their captive, he said, "And how determined are these men to see us dead?"

"Considering that these are the second set of assassins Arl Howe has sent after the Cousland heir," replied Zevran, "I would wager that he is rather determined. It's rare that we receive such a personal audience with our client."

"So the assassins that murdered my men were also your Antivan Crows," said Fergus, his tone dangerously level.

"Well, they aren't _mine_," pointed out Zevran, completely unrepentant, "but you could say that they are acquaintances, yes. In fact, I think that was Talisen leading… Yes, it was. So, more than simply acquainted perhaps…"

These last musings were spoken in a tone that seemed partially to himself. Fergus barely paid attention, the memories of Mikael and Samuel, living, alive, dying, and dead, racing through his mind. Casually, he stretched out his sword arm and the blade attached to it before slicing it through the air to neatly graze Zevran's throat, not quite close enough to draw blood. "You know," he said in a calm tone not unlike a drawl, "I think I have had it with these birds."

Mordred's eyes narrowed as the assassin's widened. Morrigan watched, unfazed, while Leliana took a step forward. "Fergus, killing him will not…"

"… do anything, I know," he finished, unmoving in stance. "I know that. I know it will not do anything but I have to have _something_. Just about everyone I know is either dead, dying, or has committed deeds so far beyond the pale that I would rather I had my memories and a pyre to visit than know they remain living in this world while my parents do not, while my wife and son do not, while my sister…"

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it and failed. Looking to Leliana, to Mordred, to Alistair, he said, "I will have something. Blood will have blood and I will have _something_."

Leliana and Alistair gazed back at him, wordless, and Mordred said nothing as well, as still and chilly as marble. Morrigan shrugged and looked away across the lake. No one had words to utter; the night was silent save for the boat's rocking against the waves and Sten's heavy, rhythmic breathing.

Finally, Zevran spoke, delicate in tone and manner. "Forgive me for the correction," he said, "and I do not think you will give me my life for this, no, but you are mistaken. I see the resemblance now. You say everyone you know is dying or dead but I do believe I encountered your sister not three days ago and she was neither. Nor do I believe you wish to visit her pyre, although I could be mistaken. Sibling rivalries in Antiva are often rather lucrative to the Crows."

Fergus stared in response. "Where?"

"On the road east from the northern tip of Lake Calenhad. She gave another identity, but the resemblance is clear now. You have the same eyes, complexion, and cheekbones. It's a rather striking combination, if I do say so myself."

"My sister," said Fergus, growling slightly, using the blade's tip to nudge the conversation back on track. "What was she doing?"

"She had been apprehended by Arl Howe's bravest and brightest, which is not saying much." Zevran smiled: a grin not uncommon to a gambler with the winning hand at the table. "I liberated her from their custody, so to speak."

"The men?"

"Shallow graves by the roadside."

"And her?"

"Riding east. Hard. She said she was going to Denerim, but asked how far to Vigil's Keep. And after the Arl. Does this surprise you, that I would assist her?"

"Considering that you were on your way to kill her brother and Howe would have paid you double for the set, a little, yes," replied Fergus, slightly ironic. "And so now what? You're trying to appeal to my better nature? My pride?"

"No, no," said Zevran quickly. "I was just seeking to inform you that you could stand to be a little less despairing. Not very much less. Just a little. And maybe a little indebted, yes. Just a tad."

Fergus's lips curled in disgust. Finally, he pulled the blade back and turned away. With a jerk of the head back at the assassin, he said to Mordred, "Have at him," and paced away to the other end of the prow, looking out across the lake once again. The fog was gone. The view to the shore was clear. And Eliante was alive. Somewhere.

* * *

_Still no internet, so forgive tardiness in responses to reviews. _

_I like boats and I like the submarine psychology of them (to write, not to live through) and I thought it would be far more practical for the Wardens and Co. to take a smooth boat ride to the Circle than hike all the way around that little inlet of water to the east. Not that that deterred the Crows, as you saw._

_Thank you as always to my reviewers. You brighten up my day every time._


	14. Darkness Unescapable

**Chapter Fourteen: Darkness Unescapable**

Tegrim's Orlesian-made armor was too tight in some places and too loose in others. As she grappled with the cured leather straps that buckled across the bodice, Eliante could hear her mother's voice in her head, warning against the impulsive purchase of ready-to-wear garments, whether they were ball gowns or riding boots. She allowed herself a small smile at the memory as her fingers secured the buckles that held her daggers close against her back and within arm's reach in a hurry as the moon rose up over the Dragonbone Wastes.

It was the place where dragons came to die, or so the Tevinter archons had claimed when they arrived to build a city upon the bones. They had said that the power of the place was palpable; Eliante Cousland was no mage but where they had sensed power, she had felt danger and where she felt danger, she acted accordingly. Thus Dancer had been let free some miles away from the Wastes and she had armed herself and packed away her clothes into a smaller, more portable back in favor of donning the purchased armor. It had pained her to leave the mare behind, but the Deep Roads were no place for a horse or a hound, as she had left Hunter behind at Bann Loren's estate. She was having enough trouble convincing herself that it was any place for a teyrn's daughter.

She crept along the edge of a slightly flaking skeleton of an immense creature, shielded by the shade overcast by a crumbling Tevinter mausoleum. The bones seemed to hum beneath her fingertips as she grappled for a handhold, nearly tumbling forward flat on her face. Scrambling to her feet, Eliante glanced backwards, looking for the cause of her stumbling: someone's slightly flaking ribcage, the bones protruding halfway above the dirt and dry, crackling leaves. She was creeping through a graveyard.

And it seemed as though she was about to climb into the grave itself. Willing her steps to be light and soundless, she began to cross the open space surrounding the path to the tower. The wind whistling above, probably carrying her scent to anything with the nose to pick it up, she placed a hand to the back of her neck left bare by her twin braids, feeling helplessly exposed and vulnerable.

Nathaniel had said they were vulnerable at Harper's Ford and so she had been, even in the middle of a bustling marketplace. She was vulnerable in a warm and well-furnished bedroom in the castle of an ally, as Nathaniel himself had proven a little more than a week ago. She was vulnerable concealed behind foliage at the roadside; she was vulnerable in the open air of a dragon's graveyard. She was vulnerable when she bent to gather water from a pond and saw her own wavering reflection. She would soon have to start bathing in the dark, she could tell. Being vulnerable was not the same thing as being in danger and yet the lines between the two were beginning to blur, probably do to the fact that was no safety from either anywhere to be found.

What had he been trying to convince her of that night at Bann Loren's estate? _"This is what you do," _he had said. _"You just think that you know everything. You really do; you just assume that the only side to the story is yours and yours alone. And even when you're in the wrong about something, when you know it, you will refuse to admit it every single time."_

So was it doubt? Was that it? Or perhaps it was forgiveness. No, he could not be so deluded that he would expect her to forgive, not so soon, not when… So it was doubt then. Doubt leading to forgiveness at a later date? And if she were to forgive Rendon Howe, what then? She could go to Denerim. She could go to Orlais. She could go to the ends of the earth if she pleased; no longer bound by the terms of a contract she had never realized she had signed. She could forget. She could pretend. She could accept. She could move on.

But Eliante's forgiveness would just be one more thing Rendon Howe would take from her and she found that she had so few things left to let go of. And why should Nathaniel ask for her forgiveness for his father? Why shouldn't Rendon Howe ask for her forgiveness himself? And yet why should he? Why should she give him the opportunity? Two things stolen: the betrayal and the pardon. Neither of which he deserved. Justice isn't mercy. Justice is you get what you deserve.

Forgiveness.

She didn't think so. Even if she could find freedom in it, he did not deserve the absolution.

Lost in thought, Eliante barely noticed the dragon's call overhead.

But she did notice the whoosh of air as its massive wings swept downward, its massive claws digging into the earth upon landing. Three-quarters of the way across the clearing, Eliante abandoned all pretense of subtlety of movement and started sprinting for the tower.

Heart pounding in her chest –those ribs she had encountered on the path had once been vessel to such an organ; what had become of its owner? –she felt the heat of flames against her left forearm as she dove right; rolling behind what remained of a wall, already short of breath. Panting, clutching her limbs tight to her chest, Eliante's gaze darted around, trying to plot a new course to the tower, suddenly very much aware of her physical limits. She had been so proud of her skills as practiced at Soldier's Peak and Harper's Ford; now she realized that running in armor, lightweight as it was, was doubly difficult than running without and that as unsettling as walking corpses were, they were no comparison to a high dragon.

She heard the beast shift from foot to foot; saw in the moonlight the shadow of the long neck swaying back and forth, the spiked points of the teeth as its jaws parted for a shrill, territorial shriek that would make her ears ache for moments to come. Shifting her weight forward, Eliante crouched, blue-grey eyes locking on the open but narrow archway that seemed entrance to the tower. She felt the layers of leather slide across her abdomen with her movement; too loose in too many places; the weeks of travel and bad sleep and poor eating had stolen flesh from her form, leveled out curves she had once been proud of, given her face, ribs, shoulders, and collarbone new sharp edges and pointed lines, and she was grateful. In the land of traitors and monsters, there was little place for smoothness and softness.

The dragon's tail whipped back and forth as it turned away from her, looking in the opposite direction; its shadow passed overhead. Mutely, Eliante counted down from three and then took off toward the tower, boots pounding into the dirt, braids streaming behind her, and heard the dragon turnabout again at the sound of her desperate bid for safety.

The sound of crackling flames seemed to chase her where the dragon moved too slowly to. She refused to look backward, not even when she dizzily thought she could smell burning hair. Her legs seemed to move of their own accord, impossibly fast, and yet the archway never seemed to get any closer until she had cleared it.

Throwing herself to the right, she hit the ground and rolled some ways down the staircase that ringed the tower's interior, scattering dust and bits of rubble in her wake. Breathing hard, close to hyperventilating, she stared at a puzzle of cracks running the length of one of the stone steps, somehow unfazed even when the entire structure shook under the brunt of the dragon's weight as it threw itself at the archway.

One, two, three times the tower shook and shuddered beneath the dragon's bulk and although she could hear the cracking and splintering of stone and rotten wood above, it did not fall.

Slowly, she shifted her weight under her, sliding her back against the chalky wall, drawing her knees up to her chest, trying to be small and insignificant even as the ground trembled with the dragon's retreat. _I'm alright_, she told herself, trying to will her limbs to uncurl at her command. _I'm just fine. Stand up._

But where the tower's shaking had ceased, her body's had not.

_Stop it,_ she demanded. _It was only a dragon. Only an animal, albeit one quite possibly deadlier than anything you'll find in the Deep Roads or elsewhere. And it's gone now. Time for you to go too._

Unfolding her body, she crawled forward and peered over the stairway's edge and into blackness. Looking down, she longed for the moon outside and wondered at what kind of creatures could exist in a realm so dark.

"_The warfront is no place for a noble lady, especially when it comes to the darkspawn. The reports from the front lines tell of men strung up by their ankles and left to rot in the wilds, mutilated corpses dangling from trees, men dragged off by ogres and the like to what purpose we can only imagine–"_

_No greater monster than yourself, Arl Howe_, Eliante said mutely to her memory and pulled from her pack the palm-sized stones she had purchased along with the armor, their smooth surfaces shimmering with deeply carved runes. Cradling it in her hand, she brought the stone close to her lips and murmured some arcane word that had accompanied the runestone, written on a scrap of parchment in lovely, lilting handwriting. The stone seemed to murmur in return, vibrating ever so slightly before settling into a steady hum, light splintering out between her fingertips to illuminate the crumbling tower around her. It was Tranquil-enchanted, Tegrim had told her in his gruff sales pitch, and she could find no better quality unless she wanted to put in an order at The Wonders of Thedas.

She could not see the tower's base floor, even with the light, but the stairs were steep and seemingly innumerable and the dragon could still be lingering outside. So she really had no choice but to descend and pray that the steps had not crumbled away to create gaps too wide and unfeasible to cross. And should this indeed be the marked entrance on the ancient map, all the better to harden her resolve. There could be no half-measures. There could be no turning back.

* * *

There was no wind. The air was heavy and thick with dust. And it was dark. It was a darkness that blinded not only the eyes but also dulled all other senses. And she was alone.

And she was grateful. The darkspawn would have made very poor company. She could already hear Anders in her head, some little quip about if only the darkspawn wanted better wages and living conditions and it was all some nonviolent demonstration that had gotten out of hand and turned into a Blight but no. They just wanted death and destruction, destruction and death. And then Nathaniel would retort that his analogy once again made no sense whatsoever. And then Eliante would tell them to be quiet because she thought she heard something.

But she heard nothing. There was no one to hear, friend or foe. A line of arcane text from some book in her grandfather's study or another came to the forefront of her mind: _The Black City is empty and all the devils are here. _If the Deep Roads that so many dreaded was the Black City to Thedas's general Fade, then indeed it was empty. As she walked the tunnels, the map tucked under her arm, a compass in her belt, and the runestone in hand, Eliante deduced that the tunnels were empty because the majority of the darkspawn had been compelled south, into the wilds, by the Archdemon's call.

South, where Fergus would have been at Ostagar. She still did not know whether her brother lived. She found that she did not want to. If he was dead, he was dead and that would only add more grief to the weight on her heart, knowing that if she had told Nathaniel off and taken after the Highever forces that night of the sacking, Fergus might have been spared from the slaughter of the king's army. If he lived, then she would curse the day she did not decide to seek him out immediately. She was twice damned. It was better to live in a state of perpetual ignorance.

Still, she could not help but admire the construction of the great dwarven highways, from what light her flickering runestone shed on the elaborate carvings, the paved surfaces. She had ridden past the Imperial Highway once upon a time and these roads were more magnificent and perhaps just as ancient, shielded as they had been for decades from the outside elements.

It was strange to think of the outside of being so many long miles above her head.

The passage of time during this section of her journey seemed long and tedious and was unmarked by any encounters, violent or otherwise. She had peered down a side passage, seen a shimmering iridescence that recalled her mind to a spider's web, and had accordingly hastened to put distance between the passageway and her own place on the map. Thank the Maker that the map had not guided her north and that way. Instead, the lines of roads drew her further east.

When she tried to sleep, she dozed fretfully and for what not could have amounted to more than three hours, huddled in some corner, wrapped in a cloak, once again trying to seem small and insignificant. It would be a skill that she guessed would serve her well once she reached Vigil's Keep, playing at insignificance. The "players" along the northern road had done so and they had proven to be effective assassins. If only she had their talents.

But she must have slept eventually, for one must have been asleep to be awoken so suddenly from slumber by small fists beating furiously against her shoulders and the arm splayed across her eyes, a quiet but urgent female voice repeating, almost chanting, "Get up, topsider, you have to get up!"

Groggily, she batted the insistent hands away and sat up, wiping her forearm across her brow. "What?"

"You need to move! We've been tracking a band of darkspawn south through these parts and they'll be passing through here any moment now. Get up!"

That got her attention. Quickly, she opened her eyes and got to her feet, just in time to watch a second dwarf in bulky armor dart about the alcove she had temporarily settled in, snuffing out the remains of whatever minimalist campsite Eliante had pitched some hours before. His face was hidden by a box-like helmet but his voice was not pleased. "You know that the commander will have our heads if we don't make the rendezvous."

"He's waiting for us to bring the enemy to him," retorted the female dwarven soldier, quickly snatching Eliante's pack from the ground and shoving it into the noble's hands. "We just need to get there first. And if they came across some human woman traveling alone down here, their entire path could be driven off-course in their… excitement."

"Aye," agreed her companion with a shudder as Eliante's blood ran cold at the implications. "You needn't remind me. I saw what happened to… No time to waste then."

"Wait!" said Eliante as the female solder grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. "Where are we going?"

"To the rendezvous point," was the answer. "I don't know who you are or why you came down here but you're armed and that's good enough for me and probably for the commander. Consider yourself temporarily recruited into the Legion of the Dead, or at least as much as any random topsider will ever be."

"Sigrun, we need to move!" hissed her companion.

"Oh, relax. Now that she's up, we can slow down a bit. The spawn are _supposed_ to catch up eventually, remember?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, "when we've got a good chunk of the legion at our backs, sure."

Still, they did move fast. Despite the bulky armor and the fact that their legs must have been half the length of hers, the two dwarves were remarkably swift. Even so, Sigrun said that the darkspawn could not be far behind. Eliante felt her heart pushing at the back of her throat at the prospect of facing those creatures. It was apprehension, yes, and it was fear, but it was also something else: something that harkened back to Highever and her father attesting to her inexperience, to his wanting to keep her out of the war, something that spoke to her desire to prove herself, whether it was to ghosts or the living.

They rounded a corner and she heard the unmistakable click of a crossbow being locked. "Found a friend, Sigrun? Leske?"

"She's not Tainted," came Sigrun's exasperated response, expressed in such a way that marked the capital T, "and the darkspawn aren't far behind."

"I'd have thought you'd be jumping for joy to have an extra pair of blades, commander," added Leske dryly.

The dwarf that emerged from the dark did not seem the type to jump for anything or anyone. Pale grey eyes ringed by the dark shadows of tattoos that elaborated on the brand on his cheekbone, a mark he shared with both Sigrun and Leske, regarded Eliante warily. "The only topsider I've seen with the stones to stand against the spawn was a Grey Warden," he said, "and you're not one of those, are you?"

"My name is Eliante Cousland," she replied somewhat stiffly, raising her chin, hoping that her family name would carry some weight. The tattooed dwarf was unmoved, so she tried again. "I'm the heir to the Fereldan Teyrnir of Highever."

"I'm wondering what this has to do with me," remarked the commander lazily.

"I'm wondering what a dwarven contingency is doing so far from Orzammar."

"You say that like you think you can go telling on us. Let me explain that until the Assembly gets their collective heads out of their arses, there's nobody to tell, even if there was an issue."

"Nobody's keen to elect the heir, I take it," she commented, trying not to make it obvious that she was grasping at straws in her analysis.

"It's a little difficult, considering that there were originally three of them. Now one's dead, one's been accused of murder and turned out into the Deep Roads, and nobody trusts the last."

"So who killed who and who framed who?" Eliante asked, raising an eyebrow.

The commander mirrored her expression, his own eyebrow cocked. "Well, that's not for me to say, is it? Not that I care. They're all the same to me, blighted politicians."

"Kardol!" shouted another dwarf in the same dark armor with the same stamped insignia. "Commander, we've spotted them. A few of them are coming through the lower tunnels and the bulk of the through the main passage."

"I guess I don't give the blighted spawn enough credit sometimes," said Kardol, shoving his crossbow into Leske's hands and drawing the huge ax from his back. "Brosca, take Dane and Calico and meet the tunnelers at the flank. Sigrun, Leske, since you've made such a nice friend, keep her with you. We'll either see the color of her courage or the color of her blood."

With a nod, Sigrun tugged on Eliante's arm and led her forward. "Faced the spawn before?" she asked. Wordlessly, Eliante shook her head. Sigrun smiled at her; it seemed to be an expression of sympathy. "First time for everything," she said kindly.

"But unlike the first sip of ale or the first lass you tumble, it's not like to be pleasant," chuckled Leske, reloading his crossbow. "Still better than Dust Town."

"At least there's places to go with the Legion," agreed Sigrun fervently. "I hated being cooped up in –there they are!"

Eliante looked past the top of the dwarf's head and saw movement in the dark of the cavern ahead. All along the frontline, the legionnaires readied their weapons and she did the same, pulling her daggers from her back, whipping one down to guard her midsection, raising the other in readiness to strike. She breathed in and then out, waiting, the moment after Sigrun's warning seeming to pass very slowly. Her grip on her blades' hilts felt slick and unreliable but she didn't risk a correction. All for the best; when the darkspawn did charge, seeming to materialize out of the dark, everything happened so quickly.

With an earsplitting screech, a trio of tall, ghoulish creatures with pointed ears and chins seemed to materialize out of smoke and air amidst the legionnaires' ranks. Swiping claws filed to a lethal point through the air, the monsters swooped down on the dwarves, the difference in height between them almost absurd. However, where the darkspawn were quick, agile, and almost arbitrary in where they aimed their strikes, the dwarves in their box-like armor were pillars of sheer strength, steadfast and precise in their blows.

Possessing neither unshakable dwarven resolve and strength nor the monsters' inhuman grace and speed, Eliante was focused, as she often was these days, on simply trying to keep herself alive. She dropped into a crouch, barely avoiding a swipe of claws that would have undoubtedly torn her features to shreds, and rolled to one side, ignoring the dust that got into her eyes at the movement. Landing low to the ground, she barely ducked beneath one of Kardol's heavy sweeps of his ax and lunged forward, burying her dagger into rotted flesh. Black blood bubbled out from the point of incision, hot and stinging against her hand. With another screech, the creature seized up and crumpled forward against her and, horrified, Eliante leapt back, trying not to retch.

Even in the massive crossroads that marked their battleground, the air echoing with the clash of

steel, the battle cries of the Legion and the equivalent howls of the darkspawn, a dark, hoarse chuckle sounded from the far side of the passageway. She whipped her head in its direction, blood-soaked braids slapping against her neck with the rapid movement, and spotted a taller figure in a horned helmet of beaten bronze lift an a to rival Kardol's up into the air in an apparent rallying cry. In its wake rushed forth perhaps two dozen of its comrades, creatures more short, square, and compact in stature that the initial attackers but more numerous and bearing the same greenish-gray pallor and rotten odor. If she looked past the jagged teeth and the wispy strands of hair, the Orlesian mask-like exaggerations of the flesh around their eyes and mouths, the apparent nonexistence of their noses, there was something about them that was not unlike men… and that somehow horrified her beyond anything else she had yet seen during the battle.

Less deadly than their taller, gaunter counterparts, the wave of attackers was more efficiently slain, the only true challenge seeming their bronze-armored leader and even he was eventually taken down by Kardol and Sigrun working in cohesion, the former deflecting and distracting with wide strokes of his ax, the latter darting in from behind, executing sharp and deadly pinprick-like attacks.

As Leske and other ranged fighters picked off stragglers and runners from a distance, Kardol wiped his ax off on the darkspawn leader's legs and strode toward Eliante. "Idiot topsider," he growled. "You're practically bathing in their blood. You swallow any?"

Alarmed by his harsh tone despite herself, she mutely shook her head vehemently as though opening her mouth would risk ingestion. Kardol observed her reaction impassively. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

Eliante didn't respond, only peeled off her gloves and used the insides turned outward to wipe her face and then fingers, tossing them aside before retrieving a length of bandage from her pack to clean off the rest more thoroughly.

"Commander," called out another unnamed legionnaire. "We found… well, we found… Jukka."

Sigrun shoved her way forward, pulling the helmet from her head. "What?" she demanded. "Is he… No…"

Curious, Eliante had followed. Sigrun fell to her knees beside the fallen figure of a dwarf in legionnaire apparel with hollowed cheeks, blotchy skin, and wide, haunted eyes that gazed aimlessly at the ceiling, their irises clouded over like condensation on a mirrored glass. "He was following them," the dwarf that had first identified him was saying to Kardol, "trying to get back to us maybe. I don't think… I don't think there's anything we can do."

Kardol regarded his former comrade with the same impassivity he had turned on Eliante. "Nothing to be done," he agreed gruffly. "Put the blighter out of his misery."

Eyes shining, Sigrun nodded tersely and stood, turning away as the unnamed dwarf unsheathed a dagger. "Stone's greetings, friend," he murmured as Jukka coughed and retched wordlessly. "Atrast tunsha. Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc," he said softly and drove the dagger down into Jukka's heaving chest.

Eliante looked quickly away and found Kardol's hard gaze. "I guess that with you along we break even," he said flatly. "What were you even doing down here anyway?"

"Following a map," she answered, pulling the parchment in question out of her bodice. "I need to get to this exit," she said, pointing out the one beneath Vigil's Keep.

"If it's even still open," Kardol chuckled darkly. "But you might get lucky. Ancestors know you were pretty sodding lucky to run into the likes of us."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she settled for a deep nod of acknowledgement. Kardol studied the map further. "Kal Hirol hasn't been marked on a reliable map outside of the Shaperate in generations. How'd you get this one?"

"Ancient Grey Warden fortress," she replied, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Sodding shapers aren't fond of us," Kardol mused, shadowed eyes still tracing the lines of the map. "And with Endrin dead, there goes any influence we can pull with the king."

"So this is a very useful map," Eliante observed.

"Aye," he agreed, not bothering to downplay it. "So what do you want for it?"

"Safe and immediate passage to that exit," she replied immediately, "give me that and the map is yours."

For the first time since meeting him, Kardol smiled. It was a dark smile, a grim smile, but a smile. "Aye, I'll get you there," he said, "but then it's all on you."

* * *

_In my AU, since Duncan wasn't there at the Proving, I like the idea that the Legion sends scouts to such events in the interests of recruitment just as the Wardens do. In such a manner were Brosca and Leske plucked from the arena and therefore from Jarvia and the Carta's grasp. However, this may have repercussions later on in Orzammar. It probably doesn't hurt that Rica is Bhelen's mistress. As she is the mother of his child, he probably would (and should) keep an eye on any potential relations that he might have to raise to the upper castes (and it doesn't hurt his goals to end the regime of caste society)._

_Many thanks as always to any and all reviewers._


	15. All Along the Watchtower

**Chapter Fifteen: All Along the Watchtower**

"_Will it hurt?"_

"_No, it shouldn't. Perhaps a bit. Just a small… pinch, we can call it. Can you handle that, boy? Just a small pinch."_

"_You didn't ask me my name." The boy's lower lip jutted outward: a gesture of surliness._

"_No, I did not."_

"_Do you care?"_

"_You are welcome to choose one that you feel suits you, if you feel so inclined."_

_The boy considered. "I'll think about it," he decided after some deliberation._

_The mage smiled. "A wise decision. But, for now, would you be so kind as to step inside this circle for me?"_

* * *

"Is it strange, going home?"

Mordred's head jerked around to face Alistair, surprised at the sudden address. After he had torn his eyes away from the tower on the lake, he replied curtly, "This isn't home. Not for me."

"Oh," said the ex-Templar. "Sorry I asked."

"So you consider Kirkwall to be home?" inquired Leliana, who never seemed to be sorry she asked.

He shook his head. "No. Not there either."

"Then where? Everyone must have a home."

"Where's yours?"

Leliana shrugged. "Once, it was Orlais and the great city of Val Royeaux. Then later it was Lothering and the Chantry. I should still like to return to both at some point in my life. I believe that I would find both equally familiar and comforting, though in very different ways."

Mordred did not respond for a long moment. Finally, just before setting down the slope to the docks, he said cryptically and somewhat haughtily, "I am my own home."

There was something strange in that, Fergus decided and the thought occupied his mind through the entirety of the exasperating debacle with the Templar Carroll and the smooth voyage across to the island, watching Alistair's, Zevran's, and Sten's forlorn figures disappear into the background of the shore. As the boat's prow nudged up against the Tower dock, he realized the kernel of the curiosity. It was not so strange to take comfort in oneself and one's continued existence; it was a sentiment not so different to Morrigan's insisting that there was nothing worse than death. It was the phrasing that made the warden-commander's words seem so disquieting; he spoke as though he himself was but a structure, a vessel, to house himself and… and what?

"_Well, you would know all kinds of things about possession."_

"Mordred, do Circle mages have a focus of study?" Fergus inquired offhandedly as their party marched up toward the double-doors that marked the entrance.

"When we're apprentices, we do," he replied, "and eventually we have to put together some sort of proposal of study to a senior enchanter and then present it. Mine was demons and their influences outside of the Fade. Others focused on, oh, I don't know, botany. Inez liked anybody who bothered with that uselessness."

"Show and tell projects," sniffed Morrigan. "How quaint."

"I think it fascinating," enthused Leliana. "The Circle Tower is probably the closest thing Ferelden has to the grand university in Val Royeaux."

Mordred's answer made sense, even if –perhaps especially if –the mage did not realize that the question posed was but a front for another issue. But it did not entirely set Fergus's mind at ease. It seemed a matter of cause and effect: did Mordred's field of study inspire Jowan's comment or was the choice of educational focus a symptom of a preexisting condition? Fergus was no Templar but one had to be a fool not to understand the dangers of demons… and while Mordred was many things, he did not strike Fergus as a fool. Or perhaps he simply had not struck Fergus yet…

What _did _strike Fergus was the state of chaos amongst the Templars when they crossed the threshold into the Tower's interior. He could not recall a time when he had seen such astutely attired warriors scuttling about like chickens with their heads cut off, no sense of purpose to their frenzied movements as they scurried away from the door on the far right. "Seal the Tower!" one of them commanded and yet even he seemed to quiver beneath the mantle of responsibility. "Do it now!"

And yet for one so seemingly fearful of sudden attack, he did not even glance as the door to the outer world swung shut behind Mordred and Leliana, bringing up the rear of the party. More concerned with the interior door, the man heaved a sigh of relief as the clang of metal reverberated throughout the chamber, mopping his sweat-soaked brow with a bit of cloth. Turning about, he glanced at the visitors once, then looked back at the door, and then did a double-take: "You again!"

"Yes," said Mordred dryly. "Me again. Hello, Greagoir."

"That's Knight-Commander Greagoir to you, Mordred, and you well know it," retorted Greagoir as his Templars panted in the ground behind him, pulling off helmets to reveal worried and sweat-soaked visages.

Mordred could not have been happier to be reprimanded so. "And that's Warden-Commander Mordred to you," he countered smugly as Fergus grinned despite himself. In truth, he had begun to appreciate the mage's dry sense of humor in the weeks since it took Mordred to slightly let down his impassive façade.

Blustering, Greagoir drew himself up to his full height. "I don't have time for this petty nonsense," he snapped. ("Proclaims the one who began the petty nonsense," Morrigan was heard to say from somewhere toward the door. "Oh, the hypocrisy of these fools never ceases to amaze…") "I have a Tower on lockdown," Greagoir continued, pointedly ignoring her, "and wounded men who need to be ferried across the lake. I don't know why you're here or how you're here; personally, I thought you were dead—"

"'Hoped' is the verb you're really looking for," intercut Mordred curtly. "You hoped I was dead. I could hear you saying 'good riddance' from across the country the moment I heard my death was common knowledge."

"What's this about the Tower on lockdown?" said Fergus quickly as Greagoir's mouth opened for another retort, trying to set things back on track before petty history got out of hand.

"And who are you?" barked Greagoir, rounding on him. "Another conveniently alive Warden?"

"No," said Leliana idly, examining her nails, "he's just the rightful Teyrn of Highever."

The knight-commander's eyes bulged. Fergus tried to keep his own mouth from becoming a mirror of Mordred's smug half-smile. It was a fortunate thing that another Templar –a tall man whose armor did not quite conceal his lankiness –rushed up to their assemblage, saying, "Knight-commander, we've just sent the messenger to Denerim. It will only be a few days' quarantine before the Rite arrives, maybe a week at most."

There was dead silence. The newcomer glanced between them, confused by the way Greagoir's eyes were fixed on some point on the far wall and Mordred's were narrowed, deadly. "You've just barely sealed the doors," said the warden-commander in a voice too calm to be sincere, "and you've already sent for the Rite of Annulment. What idiot put you in charge?"

"The Tower is lost," snapped the knight-commander, "and I will _not _be spoken to that way and certainly not by someone who used to be just another disorderly apprentice who ought to be down in a cell, warden-commander or not!"

"This is not the way we should have begun things, Mordred," muttered Fergus through clenched teeth, furious at the cavalier attitude with which Mordred weighed Connor's life, Arl Eamon's life, Teagan's life, all their lives when he spoke so disdainfully to the man whose aid they required.

"As smug as you may be in your new undeserved position," Greagoir continued, seething, "I am still the knight-commander of the Circle Tower and I have every right to request the Rite of Annulment. Unless you want to try and Conscript every single mage in the Tower –and you'll find more than a few of them less amenable to the idea in their present state –you'll find that the Grey Warden jurisdiction does not extend into Templar territory."

"Except under the circumstances of a Blight," said Mordred with a shrug, barely concealing his glee, "then the Grey Wardens would have every right to stop by and demand the enlistment of the Circle of Magi to fight against the darkspawn. The way I see it, there are mages on the other side of that door and I not only want them, I am entitled to their service against the Blight. And you're what's standing in my way."

The knight-commander's lip curled in disgust. "Me, and Maker knows how many demons."

"Demons," Fergus repeated. "How'd they get there?"

"Mages," said Greagoir, "that's how."

"And the Templars being terrible at their job," added Mordred.

"But if you want them," Greagoir continued, ignoring him, "fine. Go on. Do your best to purge the Tower of the demons. Just know that once you pass beyond that door, I have no intentions of letting you back out until the First Enchanter stands before me and says that the Tower is secure."

Fergus reached forward, wrapping his fingers around the wooden staff in Mordred's grip, pulling the polished wood back, demanding the mage's attention. "Are you certain about this?" he demanded quietly, eyes fixed on Mordred's face.

"As certain as you were that we should follow Bann Teagan into the haunted castle," he replied, meeting Fergus's gaze evenly.

He wanted to object that the situation was different, but in truth he could not find the variances sufficient to stand behind a solid argument. So instead, he stepped back, letting go of the staff, deferring to Mordred and none too happy about doing so.

Mordred stepped up to the sealed doors into the interior and turned to look at Greagoir, raising an eyebrow. Greagoir looked back, resentment reflected back at the mage. "Open the doors," he commanded his men, and they obeyed. Mordred dipped a mocking half-bow in acknowledgment and turned, walking through the archway into the Tower. Against his better judgment, Fergus followed, Leliana and Morrigan close behind.

* * *

"_Why?"_

"_I want you to meet someone. I have a feeling that you will get along swimmingly."_

"_How? You don't know me."_

"_I don't?"_

"_No. No one knows me here. They all just like each other."_

"_So I've noticed. This is why I thought it would be nice for you to have a friend, a constant companion so to speak."_

* * *

"You were most unkind to the poor knight-commander," said Leliana to Mordred as they peered through doorways to examine the apprentice quarters, although Fergus noted that she ducked her head to conceal a smile at the recent memory.

"I thought he was most amusing," remarked Morrigan idly, nudging the tip of her boot against a carpet. The dark-haired mage stood taller without the weight of her magical staff at her back, which she had chosen to leave behind at the inn given their destination.

"Well, you would," replied the former lay sister, "but I thought it was unkind. He was so clearly overwhelmed and frightened, it was pitiful."

"It was only pitiful to you," was Mordred's sharp reply, "because you see him as the victim, a noble man faced with overwhelming antagonism from another realm beyond his imagining. If you try and paint Greagoir and all Templars with that brush, I'll show you men who cage the unknown because they fear it, who claim to be protectors but are never there when their charges need protection the most because they are afraid."

The tone of his voice made Fergus turn and watch. He had seen Mordred idle, Mordred smirking, Mordred academic, Mordred gleeful, Mordred bossy, even Mordred seemingly cowed as he had been by the demon within Connor. But he had never seen Mordred _angry _and the anomaly made him turn and pay attention.

But Leliana did not provoke him further and Morrigan simply gazed at him as though studying a vaguely fascinating tapestry or portrait. Fergus watched Mordred pull open another of the dormitory doors and look into the room, lingering in a way he had not on any of the other chambers. "This is where you lived," Fergus guessed.

"Yes," replied the mage shortly, "although all of my things were moved upstairs after my Harrowing."

"So there's nothing for you in there."

Mordred pulled the door shut and let go of the doorknob with mechanical precision. "No. Nothing."

He wondered if it would be similar when he returned to Highever, if he ever did, that he would open a door to an empty chamber and see ghosts. Even if Mordred refused to call it home, it was still the place where he had studied, slept, shared meals with others like him. And now it was under siege from the inside, just as Fergus's home had been destroyed by exterior forces. He felt strange commiseration with the young mage, to have returned to a familiar world and discovered that everything had changed for the worse.

The hallway curved onward, seemingly tracing the entirety of the tower's circumference. Fergus followed Mordred's silent lead; not that he had expected the mage to provide a tour. Still, it was more than slightly vexing to follow without knowledge of the destination, but every time Fergus opened his mouth to demand an explanation, he thought of how unpleasant it would be to give a tour of Highever Castle under Rendon Howe's power. And his mouth promptly closed.

He felt smooth skin brush up against his shoulder as Morrigan slipped past him and stepped up close beside Mordred. Without changing pace, she leaned forward and murmured something in his ear, her expression very intent. His head turned to her and he nodded. Satisfied, she drew close against his elbow, almost affectionate –probably as affectionate as Morrigan could manage –as they approached a set of brief stone steps leading up to a doorway set within the tower's interior wall, enclosed within a circular library.

Mordred regarded the door impassively. "Whatever demons have the Templars running must be on the upper levels," he said as he began to climb the stairs, "if they even exist," he added scornfully.

He didn't make it to the door.

The hinges screeched as the door was flung open by a young woman in embroidered robes, her eyes wild and frantic. She stumbled forward as a man of about her age fell into her from, his clothes the same goldenrod hue and his manner equally desperate. Leliana stepped forward and caught the woman as she tripped down the stairs; the man staggered forward several paces beyond the lowest step, seemingly dazed, as two small children, no older than twelve, scampered through the doorway, darting around Fergus to the library beyond. Stunned by their sudden appearance, Fergus looked between the newcomers. "What is—"

"Get back!"

The command was issued from the mouth of a silver-haired yet clearly capable woman in crimson robes. Shocked into compliance by either the panicky behavior of the other strangers or the anathema of disobeying an older woman as installed in him by Nan years ago, Fergus grabbed Leliana's elbow and pulled her away from the stairs. She in turn dragged the still shaking female mage with them until they both reached the floor of the library, the mage clutching onto Leliana, the former lay sister, former bard watching the older enchanter with fascination and interest, absently keeping hold on the younger woman. The children were trembling with fear behind them; Fergus turned at their whimpering, and realized that the boy was close to Orren's… _Stop it. No more._

A growl sounded from the dark corridor beyond the doorway. The crimson-garbed mage planted herself at the foot of the stairs, staff braced with both hands, silvery brows knit in determination. The growl was heard again, building into a roar as flickering light lit up the bend of the staircase. There was the noise of movement, slippery, unpleasant-sounding movement like an enormous slug or snail, and then creature that had chased the mages down to the tower's base floor emerged from the stairwell beyond and Fergus Cousland saw his first demon.

The demon seemed a construct of fire and light and molten rock compacted into the shape whose thought it evoked when it moved: a slug of some kind standing upright, with a bulbous, overgrown cyst-like head and tiny burning slits for eyes. But the mage was unfazed and it was all over with unromantic and lackluster quickness. She whipped the staff around, hand over hand, and slammed the base down against the lowest step, the movement instigating a whoosh of air that caused the demon to rear up, spindly arms grasping into the air as though grappling for something to hold on to, melting into the floor until all that remained was a slightly smoking scorch mark.

The woman slipped her staff back into the harness at her back, shoulders slumped beneath its weight, suddenly weary. Looking to the now empty doorway, she raised a hand and pushed her palm to the entryway, murmuring an incantation. In response, a glittering sheen enveloped the doorframe, a shimmering repulsive barrier. Fergus found himself studying it inordinately. Magic could do wonderful things. No wonder Duncan had been so insistent that the king pull as many mages into the army as possible.

"You're not Templars," said the senior mage when she turned her attention to them. The frightened young woman pulled back from Leliana as her male counterpart, laid a hand on her shoulder. "Then who— Mordred? I haven't seen you since…"

"Since Ostagar," he finished, "where you no doubt believed I died along with the rest of the Grey Wardens. I've heard this story a lot lately."

"It seems the common theory, yes," agreed the enchanter and then looked to Fergus and the rest. "My name is Wynne. I would offer a more cordial introduction but I fear that our time is short. Mordred, where is Anders? I remember Duncan recruiting him along with you."

"Ran away during the journey south," was Mordred's answer. "I find myself less than shocked."

"It would be in his character," Wynne agreed. "The demons have not reached this far down the tower, I see."

"Apparently not," Fergus replied, "but give a week and you might have legions of Templar storming upward from the base, slaughtering everything in their wake."

Wynne stared in apparent disbelief. "They've done it then," she said quietly. "They've sent for the Rite. I was worried we were too late."

"Apparently we have to find the First Enchanter and bring him down to the knight-commander," Fergus continued.

"So we must save Irving."

"Little good he'll do anyone," Mordred muttered in response to Wynne.

The more senior mage turned her gaze on the warden-commander. "You never gave Irving a chance," she told him reprovingly.

"You're right," agreed Mordred, "I didn't. So we either find the old fool or kill everything we see on the off-chance it's been possessed."

"Mordred!" snapped Wynne and Leliana appeared to be just as affronted at the idea.

"What, I'm not allowed to make a joke?" said Mordred, but Fergus could count on one hand how many times he had heard the warden-commander do so. "Besides, it's not as though the Templars would be able to spot a possessed mage, not even if he was right under all of their noses."

"You have a terrible sense of humor," Wynne told him, hunching her shoulders as though the moral superiority of the old was a cloak she could pull close and garner warmth from.

* * *

"_Who is he?"_

"_Well, he's a stranger. He's never been to a place like this before, so he's a little shy, just like you were when you first came to the Circle of Magi."_

"_He knows you. Why don't you step into the circle?"_

_The mage's smile froze slightly. "I suppose I could," he said slowly, carefully, although the boy's ears were still too juvenile to pick up on these nuances, "but I believe it would be less than ideal. After all, wouldn't you prefer to have someone of your own age to play with? So many children your age refuse to trust their elders out of some misguided sense of… oh, I don't know. But you aren't so foolish as to make that mistake, are you? We understand each other quite well, I thought."_

"_I'm not foolish," said the boy. He had heard that word before, too many times and was pleased that the mage thought him superior to his peers._

_The mage's smile relaxed. "I never thought you such. I feared some of the other children would be… unwelcoming to our guest, just as they were to you. Children can be so cruel. But you would have been kind if you had been in their place, wouldn't you?"_

"_Maybe," replied the boy cautiously. He winced at a memory and then amended, "I guess I would be. Yes."_

"_And that's how I knew you would be the perfect candidate for this task. Now if you would simply step forward…"_

* * *

"You want them to figure it out."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mordred kept his eyes carefully trained on the piles of books, journals, and papers scattered across the First Enchanter's desk that his handles rummaged through while Morrigan kept Wynne's back turned, asking questions about the uprising at the Circle in an uncharacteristically enthralled manner as the party caught their collective breath.

Focused on the matter at hand, Fergus pretended to see nothing amiss about this invasion of the First Enchanter's privacy. "Really? Then why are you practically screaming it to the heavens?"

"I am not," said Mordred slowly, deliberately, "screaming it to the high heavens. I am just finding this all to be very ironic."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that it's ironic that it turned out to be Uldred who has set the Tower on fire, so to speak," he replied, rifling through the ages of a journal bound in black leather, "when I was convinced that one day it was going to be me." Seemingly satisfied with whatever the journal contained, he snapped the book shut and slipped it into one of the deep pockets of his coat. Looking over Fergus's shoulder, he caught Morrigan's eye and the female mage immediately ended her false interest in Wynne.

He caught Mordred's shoulder as the mage attempted to walk past. "Does she know?" he asked.

Mordred's face was unreadable. "I don't know," he answered as Morrigan shot him a knowing smile from across the room, their words out of the reach of her ears. "I've been careful; that instance with the demon in Connor was not my fault. But she and her mother saved Alistair and I and I was… out. I don't know what could have happened."

"You're worried about two apostates?"

"When one of them is Flemeth? Perhaps."

"_The _Flemeth?" Fergus laughed, partially out of disbelief, partially because he was uncomfortable with just about everything that was currently happening. "You can't be serious. You just can't."

"I've learned by now to refuse to disbelieve anything," was Mordred's answer, "but also to never believe anyone. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in any nobleman's education," he added, sounding like he was quoting from somewhere and he shook Fergus's hand off of his shoulder and joined Morrigan in the hallway.

Fergus watched as the warden-commander slipped the leather-bound book back out of his pocket and slid it into Morrigan's hand. She blinked at the book and then at him, lips slightly parted, flawless complexion glowing in the candlelight, absolutely breathtaking in her surprise and (for once) freely given gratitude. It was like a tableau: a world made more exquisite by the absence of sound as she cupped the side of his face in her pale palm and then dropped her hand quickly, glancing about as if to be sure no one had caught her affectionate gesture. Fergus quickly averted his gaze.

"It's a quiet, lovely thing, isn't it?" said Leliana's soft voice from near his elbow as Morrigan and Mordred turned away from each other as though the exchange had never taken place at all.

"It's a quiet, lovely, stupid thing," said Fergus in reply, slightly harsh. "This is wartime."

She laughed. "But then where would we get all of our ballads and tales of the knight and his lady, the warrior queen and barbarian king that meet on the field of battle and woo each other by sword?"

"The same place you get the rest of them," he answered, "dreams and the other lands of make-believe."

Leliana sighed at him, exasperated but not angry; she had long since come to expect this of him. "I just think it lovely that they find some comfort in each other," she said, "It… takes the edge off."

He could not keep a slight smile from his face at her words; it was too true that Mordred and Morrigan both had the potential to be truly unpleasant to be around and in the time since their tryst had become more obvious, they seemed to take everything out on each other, so to speak. "Ah," he observed, "and here I thought you were being completely objective in approving of their happiness together. No, it turns out that you're just as self-serving as the rest of us."

With a laugh that warmed his heart slightly, she agreed, "Indeed. But how can you blame me? When she's not otherwise distracted, Morrigan can be so…"

"Morrigan," he supplied and she laughed again.

"There's no time to linger any longer," declared Wynne from near the doorway back into the greater tower. "We must make haste to the upper levels."

"Oh, this should be interesting," commented Mordred, joining her at the door. "We lowly mages never got to see the extraordinary Templars' personal chambers."

Morrigan laughed. Leliana smiled indulgently and moved forward, her shoulder brushing against Fergus's as she did. He felt strangely aware of the small moment of contact. Perhaps it was because of the way her cropped locks swayed slightly with each step; they were very similar to Oriana's length, although the color and the style of the braids were different…

He shook his head and followed. They met little resistance as they climbed yet another flight of stairs, Fergus's knees beginning to complain at the constant ascent, and entered the Templars' domain as Mordred had identified it. These chambers were in even worse shape than the previous ones below; shiny, flesh-colored sacs squished underfoot unpleasantly as they hiked past closed doors. Wynne shook her head when Leliana moved to inspect a lock. "Uldred is what matters now," she insisted.

The hallway was eerily quiet, save for the repulsive squelch beneath their boots. The foul odor the sacs released made Fergus's nose wrinkle in distaste and, longing for a breath of fresh air, he eagerly led the companions in the direction of the stairs upward, as marked by Wynne's gesture. Overly eager, he pushed open the door to the central chamber and quickly realized, gagging, that the overwhelming odor of death and unnatural decay was worse within.

"_Visitors,_" purred the massive, misshapen, flesh-colored abomination at the chamber's center, dropping the corpse it seemed to have been gnawing on absentmindedly. "_Welcome._"

Its voice was gravelly, pleasantly husky –a marked difference from its repugnant appearance –and its tone indolent, indulgent. "_My, my_," it crooned. "_We have been busy, haven't we?_"

"Don't listen!" Wynne commanded, but even she sounded doubtful. "We will never leave this place if you do!"

"_Why such a hurry?_" murmured the demon absently. "_You've all been working so hard. Don't you think you deserve a rest? Just a moment's respite?_"

Behind Fergus, Leliana yawned and the delicate sound proved contagious. He felt his shoulders slump. "Mordred," he started to say, but the mage had already slipped to the ground, gray-green eyes shut tight, Morrigan curled up beside him, as she murmured something about a floor wet with blood.

"_Rest,_" offered the demon soothingly and he felt his weary knees hit the floor, his spine uncurl across the flagstones. Leliana sunk down close by and he absently wondered if she would indeed dream of warrior queens and barbarian kings, or perhaps something closer to home. She had said after all that she thought his struggles to be none far off from a bard's tale.

"_Sleep_," the demon murmured, as welcoming as a lover's caress and offer to return to bed for a few more long moments in the morning and Fergus closed his eyes and obeyed.

* * *

"_Do I have to?"_

_The mage hesitated again. "No," he conceded begrudgingly although he privately thought that they had gone too far, he had said too much, for the boy to walk away as he was, "but you want to, don't you?"_

"_What if I don't?"_

"_Then you will have… disappointed me. I am sorry; there is no other way to say it. But you're right. It must be your choice."_

_He held his breath. The boy's eyebrows knotted together, his expression still surly as he weighed the decision in the balance. Finally, he stepped forward and the etchings on the stone floor around him light up in complex, interwoven designs far beyond a simple circle. Lower lip caught between his teeth, the boy gazed downward at the illuminated etchings, fascinated and transfixed. _

_The mage let out a sigh of relief. "Good, good," he began but at that moment the chamber door was flung open._

"_He's left!" shouted the man through the open doorway. Both mage and boy tore their gazes away and looked at him. "Quentin's left!"_

"_Get out!" roared the mage, suddenly furious. "Get out, you fool!" he raged and the door slammed shut again and the etchings lit up a vibrant, painful, crimson red and the boy screamed._

* * *

_It's been a crazy week but here we are. Updates may become a little… sporadic perhaps, since my schedule just filled up very unexpectedly and four hours a night of rehearsal along with school isn't exactly conducive to writing. But we shall see._

_As always, thank you to my reviewers. You are the best._


	16. The Absent Arl

**Chapter Sixteen: The Absent Arl **

She would have to send the emeralds back.

It was with great reluctance that Esmerelle, City Bann of Amaranthine, made this decision. She regretted the choice even as she made it, the soft pads of her fingertips running over the gems' smooth faceted surfaces, the delicate spider-work of the lacy, looping chains that bound the jewels together chafing against her delicate skin with the exquisitely decadent sensation of opulence. It was so _hard_; the piece was so _her _after all. It was truly remarkable that Rendon was able to find gifts that suited her so well, especially in Fereldan where the clothing was bulky by nature's demand and the jewelry so heavy and ornate and abysmally clunky. Oh, if only she could simply order from Orlais, but that would be in bad taste in this day and age… and Rendon might rip the pendant from her neck if he knew its origin.

"Lovely," she said aloud, aware that the attendant that had brought her the gift was looking for her reaction. "Simply lovely," she sighed, letting the necklace slide between her fingertips, the chain grazing her palm. Esmerelle gave another sigh, as though the action of letting the jewels drop back into the offered box physically pained her, before using one aristocratically tapering finger to snap the box –carved from dark sylvanwood, she couldn't help but notice, with inlaid mother-of-pearl –shut. "Now take it back."

The attendant –a young man in Amaranthine livery –blinked. Esmerelle turned away from him, her violet hued skirt dragging against the green velvet settee –a lovely complimentary color for her dress –and turned her pointed chin and brown-eyed gaze away. She heard the crinkled of fabric, the clink of metal on metal, as the man bowed and exited the solar, one hand on his dagger. She sighed again as the door shut, taking her necklace away with it.

There could be no tolerance.

"One day you'll understand," said Esmerelle to Delilah Howe, who had been stealing furtive glances up from her book at the exchange of offering and rejection.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, madam," the younger woman protested, eyes downcast and otherwise averted.

"Oh, you're sure, are you?" laughed the bann, stretching out her legs now that they were free from the company of Rendon's courier and no doubt spy. Her violet skirts brushed against Delilah's gray. "You are so sure that your begging me every other morning for leave to go to the market is simply a manifestation of your endless hunger for that dim-witted grocer's imported confitures. It has nothing to do with his equally lacking son."

Delilah flushed, her typically sallow complexion blooming crimson. Esmerelle continued. "Don't think that I haven't noticed his little courtship of you, the way he offers up morsels of the choicest cheeses, the apricot jam you pretend to enjoy spread just so on a slice of manchet bread. You had better be careful that you don't have to let out the laces of your dress for anything more than a few pounds gained from too much marmalade."

"And is that the wisdom behind your returning my father's gift without so much of a word of explanation?" Delilah asked, face still the beet-like hue Esmerelle had conjured up with her words.

"Your father is well aware that his arrangement with me is not one that can be bought with gifts, however lavish," she replied with a tight smile, "and especially not when he chooses to waste his time with unworthy… parties in Denerim."

"Is that so?" asked Delilah, finally regaining her usual calm veneer. "I thought you would be pleased that the regent appointed him Arl of Denerim."

Of course she was. Did the girl think her a complete fool? What Rendon Howe lacked in looks, charm, and good humor he more than compensated for in power. Power was looks. Power was personality. Power was the reason she more and more frequently invited him upstairs with her after a dinner at her house in Amaranthine City.

No doubt the rumored Lady Sophie's logic followed a similar pattern.

She made herself smile again at the tiresome girl Rendon had left her with at Vigil's Keep. "Of course I am. But that's old news. And didn't I send for lunch more than half an hour ago?"

"You sent Adria down with the message," Delilah answered, turning a page in her book. "Her knees aren't the best anymore. It takes her time to go up and down the stairs."

"Well then," Esmerelle sniffed, "maybe it's high time for some new blood."

Delilah looked up, aghast. "No! I mean… the servants are just so used to Thomas and I going downstairs to eat, since our father is so often at court we hardly have formal dinners anymore…"

"Well, that won't do. Besides, didn't I just approve Adria's request to hire a new girl? Where is _that _lazy slut? And your brother. Where has _he _been all morning?"

"Where he always is," muttered Delilah into her book, shrinking into her chair.

Esmerelle's lower lip turned down but she shrugged off the reminder of Thomas's too often state of perpetual drunkenness. Between the younger son stumbling blindly through the keep's halls, blatantly soused in broad daylight, fine leather boots caked with vomit, and the elder disappearing from the face of the earth after the deposition of the Couslands, she wondered what had gone wrong with this generation of the Howe men. It had to be the Bryland blood, Esmerelle decided. After all, Bann Perrin was Leonas's little brother and those… underthings that had been found nailed to the Chantry board in Denerim one night were simply—

There was a soft knock at the door, barely audible, but both women's heads snapped in its direction: Esmerelle's out of pique at the late arrival, Delilah's in desperation for a respite from her father's mistress's ire. "Well, what are you waiting for?" snapped Esmerelle impatiently at the closed door. "I called for lunch ages and ages ago."

Delilah ducked her head back down into her book at the other noblewoman's tone as the door swung open and a young woman entered the solar, something hesitant and almost frightened in her step. Poor dear, Delilah reflected. The other women must have warned her off of the city bann and her storms and now she's scared stiffless. Poor thing.

The maid set the tray down on a table adjacent to Esmerelle's settee and immediately set to pouring a glass of the rich red wine Esmerelle had brought with her from the city and a mug of small ale for Delilah. The arl's daughter thought longingly of the Orlesian tea and chocolate Eleanor Cousland had once served at her saloon in Denerim… but Delilah was the daughter of a patriot and the Couslands had been found to be traitors.

Blonde eyebrows knitted in concentration, the maid reached across the back of the settee to hand Esmerelle her glass, but the bann caught the young woman's wrist instead. The ruby liquid swished and swirled within the crystal glass, threatening to slosh over the rim and spoil both settee and dress, but Esmerelle paid it little mind. "Where's Adria?" she demanded, eyes intent on the girl's face.

Gaze downcast, the maid replied, "Downstairs in the storerooms. She sent me in her place."

"You're new here, are you not?" When the younger woman nodded slowly, eyes still downcast, Esmerelle sniffed. "Well, the first thing you ought to be aware of is that when I ask a servant to complete a task, I expect that that servant does so. I do not wish Adria in her ancient age to be a poor example for you to follow."

"Of course, madam," murmured the girl, dipping her head again. Her hair had been wrapped up into the embrace of a patterned headscarf in such a fashion that not one strand was left revealed: a curious fashion, but perhaps practical in keeping one's hair clean over the course of a day's work, Delilah reflected.

Esmerelle inspected the maid's face, using the grip on the girl's wrist to turn her this way and that. It was a miracle that the younger woman was able to keep a steady grip on the wineglass and not a drop spilled over onto the bann's skirts. "It's a pity about that scar," remarked Esmerelle, cruel in calling attention to the mark, Delilah decided, "you would have been almost pretty. And what in the Maker's name are you wearing on your head?"

Color bloomed across the maid's cheeks at the attention called to her odd headdress. "I didn't want to call attention to myself," she murmured and Delilah thought there something odd in the way she spoke, the way each word did not slur into the next as did the words of much of the help at Vigil's Keep.

"With that curtain wrapped around your head, I don't see how you are achieving anything but calling attention to yourself," was Esmerelle's sharply laughing reply.

The red in the girl's cheeks deepened and her gaze darted back and forth along the length of the velvet settee. "I'd… rather not discuss it."

"I insist," said Esmerelle with a sweet smile.

The girl took a deep breath, the space between her pale eyebrows screwing up in concentration as she gazed at the floor, still not meeting anyone's eyes. The look of concentration struck Delilah as familiar, but she could not quite place the feeling's origin. "I explained to Adria," she began slowly, almost pensively. "My family's farm was set aflame by bandits and my hair…"

"I don't think there's any need to continue," said Delilah quickly, wishing to save the girl the embarrassment, widening her eyes at Esmerelle. "I don't think Father would appreciate you interrogating the staff Adria already appointed. It's her prerogative after all, in kitchen matters."

"Oh, I suppose," sighed Esmerelle, dropping the girl's hand and almost causing her to drop the glass of wine. "I just can't help but be cautious. It's always awful when the people you trust most are the ones that stab you in the back, just as the Grey Wardens turned their backs on —oh, you wretched creature!"

The maid's hand had seemed to twitch as Esmerelle spoke –perhaps an involuntary spasm due to being held so still for the entirety of her interrogation –and the wine finally did as it had been threatening to do and sloshed over the crystal rim to splash across Esmerelle's lap.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" the maid exclaimed, snatching up a napkin from the tray and trying to dab at the growing stain while Esmerelle shrieked curses and insults and Delilah tried to conceal a grin at the bann's outrage.

"Foolish… Idiot… Mangy… Common…"

The solar door was flung open again and Thomas strode forward from the hallway beyond, his shirt untucked, feet shoeless, stockings caked with mud, pitch-black hair in absolute disarray. "Hullo, Aunt-Mother Esmerelle," he announced casually and Delilah's eyes widened, knowing how the bann detested his calling her that (a habit Thomas had picked up from Nathaniel once upon a time). "I thought I heard your sweet —oh, most excellent! Food!"

The maid's head flung upward from the squirming and still railing Esmerelle at Thomas's entrance and, for the first time, Delilah saw the servant's full face straight-on. Her mouth dropped agape and the book tumbled from her hands.

"What? I can't be _that _much of a fright, sweet sister," laughed Thomas at Delilah's expression as the girl swirled away from Esmerelle and the tray Thomas was approaching in hastily muttered search of water and towels behind the folding screen in the corner. "It's barely one and I haven't even been trying —Is that cake? I love cake!"

"That lack-witted maid!" Esmerelle continued to fume, dark eyebrows swooping down on slightly beady eyes in contempt. "That _will _come out of her pay. What's her name anyway?"

"I haven't the slightest notion," said Delilah quickly as Thomas said through a mouth of cake, "New maid? She pretty?"

"Horridly ugly," answered Delilah briskly, even as the girl in question reentered the greater part of the room, leaving Esmerelle no time to answer, "and you're in no state to go wooing, brother."

Hastily swallowing the food in his mouth, Thomas rejoined, "You'd tell me she was ugly even if she was a face to rival the portraits of Andraste in the Chantry—"

"Sacrilegious!" Esmerelle spat, probably only piqued that no one had made such a comparison in _her_ favor.

"—and especially if she was one!" Thomas finished, laughing. "Is that wine?"

"All over my dress, yes, and you can thank your pretty maid over there!"

"I do!" Miming pulling a hat from his head, Thomas swept the woman in question an elaborate bow. "And I do believe she is my soul mate. I have never been able to put you into _quite _this state, dear aunt-mother. Prithee, might I have a name, fair creature?"

Shaking her head vehemently, the maid mumbled some excuse and dropped the towels on Esmerelle's lap, fleeing from the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Thomas raced across the solar to throw the door open once more, calling after her, "You're right! It's such a fine day outside. I know where to gather roses as exquisite as yourself _and _I know of a bed in which to plant them!"

"_Thomas!_" Esmerelle shrieked, but the young man merely laughed and ran out the door.

Once again alone with Delilah, the city bann threw herself backwards against the pillows of the settee, tossing one arm across her eyes dramatically. "Idiot chit," she groaned, "and your brother too. Why does he act out so?"

"I don't know," murmured Delilah. Reaching down to retrieve her novel, she cast another glance at the door through which what might have been Eliante Cousland had fled. "I don't know what's going on."

* * *

"I was told that evil always triumphs because good is stupid," Sigrun said to Eliante some days previous to the mishap in the solar of Vigil's Keep, "and I suppose that in Dust Town and Orzammar that was true enough. There are far more casteless than nobles but we're too content in our own filth and misery to stand up and do anything about it. It's easier to play the victims, I guess. But Jukka… maybe he wasn't the brightest of us, but he wasn't _stupid _and he certainly wasn't stupider than the _spawn_."

"My father wasn't stupid either," said Eliante quietly as they marched onward through the Deep Roads, "but that didn't keep him and my family from being murdered in their own home."

"So why were they?" Sigrun asked, her eyes still surveying the path ahead even as their conversation continued.

"My stupidity," was Eliante's quiet answer, "and maybe because they were _too _good. They thought too highly of mankind to suspect that their best friend would turn on them in the night he spent as a guest in their home."

"You're too hard on yourself," remarked Sigrun.

"There's no one left to be hard on me," she replied, the image of Nathaniel's retreating back flickering on the insides of her eyelids, "so it's up to me to make up the difference."

"You're both missing the entire point of the Legion of the Dead," Leske told them with a snort of derision. "We got all of the mourning out of the way before we joined up for a reason, remember?"

"So you're all already dead?" asked Eliante, eager to divert the subject once she had been tricked into honesty. "But you're not physically dead, clearly."

"Symbolically, yes, we're all dead," said Sigrun pensively. "It's a difference of several pints of blood, you see. We accept our inevitable death at the hands of the spawn and therefore we are devoted to that purpose and fight without fear."

"And does that work?"

"It's not for everyone, I guess," said Sigrun. "Why? You looking to join up, topsider?"

"Can I be there when you ask Kardol?" Leske asked, snickering.

"I can't join," replied Eliante. "I have too much to do on the surface. But does it work?"

Both legionnaires fell quiet. "There was a girl that joined up about a year ago," volunteered Sigrun quietly. "Fresh out of Dust Town. I think she couldn't have been more than sixteen. The darkspawn had taken her sister when they burrowed up through some old mining tunnels once."

"That was a scary day," intoned Leske equally quietly.

"She couldn't handle the hand-to-hand combat," Sigrun continued, "so Katya –she was our weapons-master at the time –put a bow in her hands. And it turns out she was damned good with the thing. Of course when she started hanging around down here long enough, she got kind of funny, like a lot of them do, started saying things like 'I am an arrow and the darkspawn's hearts is my home.' And eventually she died –physically died –like a lot of them do. But when we went back to the battleground and picked through the corpses, trying to salvage what we could, I was the one that rolled her over. She still had her arrows in her hand and there was such a look of absolute peace in her face, it was… It's not something you see every day in the Deep Roads, I guess."

"No," agreed Eliante softly. "I wouldn't think so."

They marched on in silence for some time. With the ancient map in Kardol's hands, they were steadily making twice the progress Eliante been consistently achieving on her own, even given their much greater numbers. The air seemed crisper already and there was the slightest of breezes seeming to beckon them further forward. Yet it was some time trooping along in the dark before Eliante ventured to ask, "Do you think she found it?"

"Found what?" asked Leske gruffly.

"Peace?" Sigrun supplied and in that one word seemed so much doubt that everything changed. Her voice, which moments before had seemed to dispel the shadows, now seemed a wispy, wavering glimmer in the overwhelming darkness as the light of her very eyes seemed to dull. "She definitely didn't find her sister if that was what she was looking for."

"Probably the stone's blessing that she didn't," muttered Leske and once again Eliante's skin crawled with a terror of a thought not entirely manifested nor completely understood.

"Probably," agreed Sigrun bleakly, "but peace? Can't say. In Dust Town, it felt like we always had something to fight for, we just never had anything to really fight _with_. Joining the Legion solved that problem, for me anyway. Kardol basically handed me a weapon, pointed at the darkspawn, and off I went. But is that peace, all this fighting and chasing and running with your work never being done because there will always be more? Is that peace? I'd call it purpose, but I suppose some folk can find peace in that. But then when do you stop?"

"I am an arrow," Eliante had repeated, Sigrun's musings cast into the shadow of the roadside by that single burning phrase.

"I am an arrow," she had repeated softly to herself when Kardol pointed at the crumbling staircase that led upward into the belly of Vigil's Keep. She nodded at him and he at her and onward she had gone.

She had murmured the phrase again, when she had cleaned herself up with the dregs of a near empty barrel of rainwater stored in the basement and when she had ignored the threat of the rusty bars of cages and cells yet to be filled deep within the storerooms, a commoner's dress and apron over the supple detachable lining of her Orlesian-made armor and a scarf wrapped close around her head, eyebrows colored yellow with a bit of clay she had found littering the ground.

_I am an arrow_, she had insisted to herself when she tugged the new maid back from her duties in the pantry and offered her a ridiculous portion of the gold from Soldier's Peak she had brought along with her in exchange for her silent exit from the keep, allowing Eliante to supplant her. And she told herself it again once more, in assurance, as she raced out of the solar, turning a sharp corner into an adjoining hallway as Nathaniel's younger brother bounded past, exhilarated by the spirits of youth, rebellion, and liquor.

Breathing hard, adrenaline pounding in her ears, she sank to the ground and pulled her knees to her chest, hidden in the shadow of a laundress's momentarily abandoned cart. Just as the players along the roadside had their parts to preform and execute, just as Sigrun and the Legion had their purpose to enact in their preemptive symbolic departure from the living world, so did she. She was an arrow whose heart was Rendon Howe. It did not matter if the arl was not at Vigil's Keep presently. He would be soon enough. And she would be ready.

But first, there would be other, less expected complications.

* * *

Delilah found her in one of the vegetable gardens. Cast in the shadow of the stone wall encircling the keep and its surrounding structures, she paused some yards away from the teyrn's daughter in maid's clothing and twisted her fingers up in some intricate knot of flesh, bone, and shame. "I am so sorry, Eliante."

The woman she addressed did not raise her head from the stubby stems of potatoes and carrots buried deep within the earth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're in trouble," Delilah pleaded, taking a step forward. "Let me help, do whatever I can."

"You're trouble," the woman counted, her hands tangling beneath the flower-like clusters of leaves. "Go back."

That was pure Eliante. Delilah planted her feet and refused to budge. "What happened to Nathaniel?"

"What happened to Thomas?" she countered and now Delilah was sure. "He was never this bad before."

"He… didn't take too kindly to Father leaving us under Esmerelle's supervision," replied Delilah with a shrug. "It's mostly just to annoy her. I think. I hope."

Eliante didn't reply, merely stood up and looped her arms around the basket she retrieved from the ground. Her arms seemed so thin beneath the rough linen of her plain dress's sleeves and her palms were bedecked with calluses, her shoulder, exposed by the drooping of her collar, was decorated with an angry bruise. There were similar marks that were slowly fading beneath her right eye, the pale green of a young leaf speckling across her cheekbone.

The sight made Delilah want to hide her smooth hands and run upstairs to toss the paints she used to disguise her freckles out of her bedroom window. "I am so sorry," she said again, helpless. "I didn't know until… until it had already happened and there was nothing I could do."

The Cousland heir still said nothing, her blue-grey eyes trained on some point beyond Delilah, far in the distance. She tried again. "I am so—"

"It's not me you should be apologizing to," Eliante cut her off curtly. "After all, I'm still walking around and talking, although I make a rather piss-poor player, it seems."

"So there's really no one else," replied Delilah, her grey eyes –so like her brother's in shape and hue –widening. "I mean, I knew… I just hoped… I wished…"

"Little point in hoping and wishing," remarked Eliante bleakly. "Maker knows I've done enough of both in the months since. I saw a pillar collapse on my mother. I watched my father's breath dwindle as he bled out in our pantry. I refuse to even let myself wonder for a moment if my brother somehow managed to escape the slaughter at Ostagar."

"The body count was so high," Delilah agreed in hushed tones, "and the king… If Teyrn Loghain couldn't save Cailan, who could be saved?"

"That's ridiculous," Eliante snapped. "Everyone's saying that Loghain abandoned Cailan to die."

"Everyone," Delilah countered, "except the people that aren't. And there are quite a few of those, it would seem. Enough to keep Loghain installed as regent anyway. Eliante, what happened to Nathaniel? I can't believe that he would have –have participated, even if… even if the teyrn and teyrna were conspiring with the Orlesians, there was no reason to deny them a proper trial… I can't see Nate—"

"Why don't you ask your father?" replied Eliante with a shrug. "He is his son, after all."

Delilah stared at her for a few moments. "You know that isn't true."

"I don't?"

"Well, apparently you've decided to forget! But you never heard how they railed at each other before Nate left for the Free Marches, how cold they were to one another when he finally came back. It might as well have been Wintermarch in Solace; it was enough that I was allowed one glimpse of my brother in the courtyard, ready to ride out with the men, before my father jerked the curtain closed. Eliante, you have to tell me what happened to him!"

"You sound as though you're worried he's dead," she remarked coolly.

"If he was caught in the horror at Highever, perhaps!"

"Wouldn't your father have protected him?"

Delilah hesitated, her hand rubbing at the back of her neck, the edge of her collarbone, as though mental anguish had awakened physical distress. "Some say that Bann Loren is something less than distraught at his son's disappearance," she began hesitantly, "that he's gone to Denerim to rally with the regent and his grief appears less than genuine. Urien Kendalls and his son never held any love for one another; you know that. And my father… He was always a patriot, but this is not the same. He's become almost… zealous; obsessive. If he thought Nathaniel would oppose him… well, it's the old saying of the heir and the spare. He has Thomas. He's always had Thomas; he used to have them both but Nathaniel turned away from him. Maybe he was frightened that turning away would become turning against."

Eliante was quiet. Delilah looked away, feeling very alone despite her one-time childhood companion's company. "They are so alike, you know," she said softly. "Proud… stubborn even. My father loves Nathaniel, as he loves all his children. He'll remember it, eventually." She looked back to Eliante, who had remained motionless, unmoving, and seemingly unmoved. "Your hair's not really singed off, is it?"

Still mute, she shook her head. Looking at her more closely, Delilah asked, "Why are you here?"

"Answers."

"You make an extraordinarily piss-poor player," Delilah told her. "You're lucky that I want answers too."

* * *

_I find it impossible to believe that Delilah hasn't been brainwashed at least a little by her father. At least enough to believe that Loghain did not turn his back on Cailan without reason._

_I apologize for the briefness of the update but I'm having a lot of trouble finding time to write presently. I'm just pleased that I managed to get this one out on time. It was fun to get into Esmerelle and Delilah's heads, since I've limited myself to Eliante and Fergus until now._

_As always, I really, truly appreciate any and all feedback. :)_


	17. Siren Song

**Chapter Seventeen: Siren Song**

His arms were full of warm, pale skin and soft, thrumming heartbeat. His own pulse answered the rhythm, his heart's pace slow and lazy in tempo. The smooth and undoubtedly feminine body atop his own shifted and a beam of sunlight fell directly across his closed eyes. Growling slightly, still half-asleep, he adjusted his own position, burying his face in sweet-smelling pale brown hair. He heard his name murmured from somewhere against his bare chest and Fergus pulled back slightly, eyes cracking open to look down at his wife.

"Stubble," Oriana murmured, her own eyes still closed, her tone slightly chiding even as her pertly shaped mouth curled into a smile, "against my forehead. It scratches."

"You like it when I look all rugged," he returned, feeling his own mouth curve into a grin.

"Not to the point where everyone will know when we've been kissing because my face will be all roughed up from where your beard is coming in," she retorted playfully, still nuzzling against his chest –she didn't seem to mind the hair _there_.

"And are you perhaps hinting that you might wish to kiss someone, dear wife?"

"Not at all, dear husband," she countered impertinently. "It would be unseemly for a lady to admit to such base desires."

"Oh, I'm sure we could find a way to convince society otherwise," Fergus laughed, rolling them both over so that she was pinned beneath him, "or at least whatever ancient Antivan duenna taught you such ludicrous notions. As a husband, I would have my wife able to match me in every capacity, should it please her."

The sheets twisted away from them, Oriana brought her knee up between them and knocked it gently against his ribs, her hands lazily exploring his arms as he playfully assumed a push-up position above her. "If only we had the time," she sighed, "but I'm afraid we've slept late and are already in danger of your mother's scolding."

"Oh, she wouldn't mind so much," he protested. "In fact, she'd be thrilled to have another grandchild to dote on, as would Oren to have a brother or sister in the nursery, and as would I, to have the pleasure of watching my sister become vexed twice over by being called 'auntie'."

"I'd like to have a girl this time," said his wife thoughtfully, "you wouldn't mind, would you? You already have a son to hunt with you; I'd love to have a little daughter to read and sew with me."

"You wouldn't want me to take her out a-hunting with Father and Eliante?"

"Your sister is a wonderful girl," replied Oriana diplomatically, but Fergus knew already that his wife was truly fond of Eliante despite her pragmatic tone, "but my family has never held with instructing its daughters in the fighting arts. Your mother is also a talented woman, but I'm afraid I don't share her views on a noblewoman's education. But you know this, Fergus."

"I do, I do," he sighed his acknowledgment, rolling off of her to one side and staring up at the canopy above. "But don't you think that in these troubled times all able-bodied souls should be taught to defend themselves?"

"But isn't it also dangerous," Oriana countered, "for such a soul to overestimate their brief education and take it forward into a sea of troubles and drown? I don't want a daughter of ours to become a shield-maiden only to suffer a shield-maiden's death on the battlefield. You are a most capable soldier, my husband, but even had my mother hired one of the Crows' guildmasters for my instruction, I fear I simply would not have it in me to fight. To kill."

Something deep in his gut twisted: the uneasy feeling he sometimes felt when he had unwittingly left his horse's stall unlatched or a weapons' rack uncovered in a rainstorm, the vague sensation that he had forgotten something vital. But perhaps it was simply a reflex reaction to the idea of his wife in danger from some hypothesized threat. He swallowed the feeling and replied, "You would. If Oren was in danger, you would. I'm sure of it."

She stretched out beside him like a cat as he folded his arms behind his head. The creamy sheets clung to her body like some ancient Tevinter dress, or sea foam in a legend of an Avvar goddess rising from the waves. Fergus Cousland was a lucky man and he was reminded that he was even more so: "It is so fortunate that you were able to return home early from the march in the south," Oriana sighed as she splayed one slender arm across his chest. "Not even a real Blight, just as you said and home before Satinalia."

There it was again, that mental knee-jerk. He swallowed it down again and asked casually, "Was it so unbearable to be without me?"

"Whatever vexation I felt at the king for stealing you away vanished quite promptly as soon as I saw you and your father riding home safe and sound," she answered with a yawn, "but I shudder to imagine what horrors your lady mother will inflict on us if we are late getting downstairs. Up." He didn't budge. "Fergus Cousland, you lazy slattern, up!"

"Ow," he laughed his protest when her hand hit him stingingly against his shoulder. "You're such a slave-driver…"

Rolling her eyes, Oriana rolled off of him and off of the bed. Chuckling at her indignation, he rolled onto his side and, rather than get up and get ready himself, he merely propped his head up against his hand and elbow and watched her dress, admiring the little secrets of her smallclothes, the lace at the collar of her chemise that would be covered by her gown, the way the skirt faded into sheer silk as it approached the hemline. Oriana loved fine pretty things from Orlais –silk stockings and enameled and jeweled trinkets –and Fergus was too happy to oblige her tastes, especially when he got to be privy to the employment of some of her more scandalous purchases.

Noticing him watching, a hot scarlet washed over her skin from collarbone to cheekbones. "The way you're watching me, you make me feel like a woman in a house of ill repute."

"I'm not permitted to admire a lovely woman," he began to protest and was rewarded by the cushion previously on her vanity's chair served righteously into his face, "who happens to also be my wife?" he finished, tossing the pillow over his shoulder with careless abandon.

She glared at him but he only grinned back, finally rising to his feet now that she was dressed and the show was over. As Oriana turned back to her polished mirror to select and secure her earrings, he crept up behind her and buried his face in her neck. Instead of pulling away or swatting him in return, she merely stood still and relaxed in his arms, melting into his chest, her spine slotting against the ridge of his sternum. "I missed you," he whispered into her skin. "More than you know."

"I know," she murmured in response. "I missed you too."

Highever Castle was under siege from snow. The frost that marked Firstfall was draped over rooftops, crates, and barrels and icicles dripped from the eaves within which swallows burrowed deep. Dressed for the chill, Fergus enclosed Oriana's warm hand within his own as they ventured forth out of the private apartments and into the open air.

A sharp bark greeted their passage: a too familiar hound ran forth from the open air corridor leading toward the kitchens, tail whipping back and forth in the gently falling snow. His mistress soon followed, the curve of her wrist held against her mouth.

"Almond pudding?" Fergus asked Eliante, recognizing the puckering between his sister's eyebrows that spoke of discomfort.

"Burned almond pudding," she answered, pulling her hand away from her mouth to reveal the furious burn. "See my battle scars?"

"Oh, indeed," her brother rejoined, grinning, "Such a frightening opponent you faced. Barely escaped the gaping jaws of the oven, did you?"

Eliante whacked his shoulder with her wrist. "Mother's looking for you."

"I am endlessly henpecked!" he declared, looking between Eliante and Oriana.

"Only henpecked because you insist on crowing so," retorted Eliante. "I swear if you tell the story of the darkspawn ambush in the swamp one more time, _I _will ambush you and you won't get away nearly so cleanly."

—_They hadn't been darkspawn; they had been men and he hadn't gotten away clean; he hadn't gotten away clean at all— _

"You're just jealous that you didn't get in on any of the glory," he retorted, arm curling around Oriana's waist as though she were an anchor to the world and without her he would float away into the snow-frenzied air. "Take it up with Father; maybe he'll bring you along on the next bandit raid."

"It would make a good Satinalia gift, if he promised," she agreed, "but Mother just wants to bring me along for the season in Denerim; I keep telling her that I've already—"

"There you are!"

Still bearing her wooden spoon, as fearsome in her grip as any battleax, Nan strode forward from behind Eliante. Hunter whined in anxiety at the old cook's approach as Eliante turned slowly about. "You," said Nan to Fergus's sister, "left a right mess in my kitchen: almonds everywhere and cream bubbling up over the pot. Go put things right. And you," she turned to Fergus as Eliante slipped past her to the kitchen, still nursing her burned hand, "your lady mother has been asking after you a-constant and your pup is in there with her. Go on; your father's in the hall with them and the guests."

"And we should make haste to join them," urged Oriana quietly, taking his arm and guiding the way hence to the hall.

"There's my son!" said Bryce Cousland loudly as Fergus and Oriana entered the main hall. Fergus's father quickly stood from his seat at the table as Oriana stepped forward and handed Fergus a goblet. "There's my boy, the hero of Ferelden. I was just telling your mother the details of how you saved Cailan from that ogre on the battlefield. Grim, nasty business but you deserved every honor for it."

Fergus choked on his drink. "Hero of Ferelden?"

"Since when did we raise such a modest son?" chuckled Bryce, stepping forward to clap him on the back.

"He's not usually so," Eleanor agreed, rising from her place at the table to join them. "I am surrounded by boasting, braggart boys it seems. Thankfully, I have a daughter. Where is she anyway?"

"She was here not too long ago."

"Cleaning up burnt pudding," Fergus began to answer automatically when he saw the speaker for the first time.

Nathaniel Howe turned about in his chair with a snort at the answer. "She's still trying to become a pastry chef?"

"Much to my dismay," Eleanor sighed, "but it can't be much helped."

"There's no telling my bold girl," agreed Bryce, more cheerfully than his wife, but Fergus still stared at Nathaniel.

The younger man raised his eyebrows at the elder Cousland child. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah," Fergus agreed slowly, still looking at Nathaniel closely, "I just can't quite put my finger on what exactly."

"Did we forget Oren's present upstairs?" asked Oriana, worried.

"No, it's right here," Eleanor replied, pointing at the pile of gifts in the corner. "I'm afraid your wrapping did a poor job of disguising what it was. He's already running to the kitchen boy with news of his new 'sward.'"

The crease between Fergus's eyes deepened as he attempted to deduce what exactly was making him so… uncomfortable. But his thoughts seemed suddenly groggy, unwilling to be gathered and organized into a pattern that made any sense. He shook his head, trying to smile.

"I've just barely escaped!" announced Eliante as the door behind Fergus was suddenly flung open, blue-gray eyes lighting up and cheeks flushed from the cold. "And the snow is so beautiful; you must all come and see!"

"We've seen plenty of it, birdy," Bryce chuckled. "Come sit down and have some breakfast," he continued, indicating the seat across from his own.

Eliante obeyed, but not perfectly: choosing instead the seat beside Nathaniel, who was practically preening with satisfaction as she glowed up at him. Eleanor sighed, glancing up at Bryce who caught her eye with an indulgent smile. Fergus thought he was going to be sick.

"I hope I'm not late."

Fergus turned about at the sound of the too familiar voice, heard too often in dimly remembered dreams of anger and vengeance that seemed to make little sense in present context. Rendon Howe stepped in through the door behind him, a typical tight smile on his thin face, shaking the snow from his cloak.

"What are you doing here?" asked Fergus, his voice deathly quiet.

"Ah," said Arl Howe, "the man of the campaign himself. Permit me to offer my congratulations once again on your knighthood. It is a great honor but one that is nonetheless well-deserved. The accounts of your battlefield heroics are quite thrilling."

"What are you doing here?" asked Fergus again, more loudly.

Oriana stepped forward from the table as Eliante and Nathaniel looked on, confused. "Fergus," she said softly, "Fergus, what's the matter, love?"

"Something's not right," he answered quietly, his hand finding her own. "Something's wrong, about all of this."

"What do you mean? Nothing's wrong!" Oriana protested. "We're just having breakfast… See, there's Oren with the nurse now."

Indeed, there was his son running forward from the embrace of his nurse's skirts, racing to cling his spider-like arms around his leg. "Is it true, Papa?" Oren asked excitedly. "Did you really bring me back a sward?"

"A miniature of yourself at that age!" Arl Howe laughed.

"But where are Thomas and dear Delilah?" asked Eleanor, drinking from her glass and setting it down upon the table with a clink.

"Well, you know Thomas is always such a lazy slugabed," replied the arl, moving past Fergus to take the seat Eliante had declined. "But Delilah… Ah, that must be her now."

The door creaked open again and light flooded out from the doorway, far beyond any sunlight possible in a snowstorm. Two figures stepped forward from the exterior, but they were hardly Thomas and Delilah.

"Oh what fools these mortals be," drawled a familiar sneering tone as the dark-haired apostate made her entrance, shaking snow from her bare shoulders like a crow from its wings, golden-eyed gaze surveying the room's occupants.

"You are being callous and you are also as mortal as either of us," chided her companion –an exquisitely armed archer; even Fergus could not help but admire her weaponry, to say little of her face and figure. To think such thoughts when his wife stood beside him… Fergus Cousland was an honorable man, a faithful man. But something was not quite right. A great many things were not quite right.

"And you are just hurt that I found you praying in a self-invented cloister, one of thousands of little mindless bees in a self-absorbed hive," the witch shot back before turning her attention back to Fergus. "Come along, little lordling. Neither the demons nor the darkspawn will wait long."

"Fergus, do you know these people?" asked Oriana, clearly ill at ease by their sudden arrival, her eyes lingering disapprovingly at Morrigan's –yes, that was her name –very exposed chest.

"Fergus," said the copper-haired archer, more softly, less shrill than her companion. "It's time to go."

"And do what?" demanded Bryce Cousland, rising to his feet, as did Eliante and Nathaniel. "The darkspawn are defeated, unless you wish to drag him underground and that is the dwarves' domain. Besides, my son is a hero, personally thanked and honored by both the king and Teyrn Loghain. Has he not already given enough to oppose the darkspawn?"

"Fool," Morrigan fumed. "Can you not perceive that this is all counterfeit, all sleight of hand? They are anything but what you see them as."

Leliana –her name was Leliana, he now recalled; the lilting syllables of her name like a half-forgotten tune skimming the surface of his mind –was observing Eliante, who gazed hostilely back. The archer looked back to Fergus. "You have a lovely family," she said quietly to him, something deep and unreachable in her blue eyes. "You and your sister are much alike; you each have your father's chin. Your son is the very picture of you. Your wife is beautiful and loves you. But these are not them, Fergus."

"Is she mad?" Oriana cried out, her own eyes wide and agitated, hands pulling Oren back into the folds of her skirts. "What a thing to say!"

"You rode south from Highever," Leliana told him quietly and it was strange to hear a supposed tale of him told like those of Aveline, Flemeth, and Harharku, "ahead of your father and his friend Rendon Howe, whose men were delayed. They never arrived at Ostagar and you were out scouting in the Wilds when you were attacked by assassins. Your father never made it to Ostagar because Rendon Howe turned on him in his own home. He sent the assassins south to end the line."

"Preposterous!" Howe declared, sputtering, as Nathaniel stepped forward from the table, face angry. "This borders on treasonous talk!"

"Rendon Howe is a trusted friend and ally," Bryce stated, "and anyone who will claim otherwise is no friend nor ally of mine."

"You were found by the Grey Wardens!" Leliana insisted, standing her ground even as Nathaniel and Howe both advanced forward from the table and Fergus's hand came to rest upon his sword. "We're your friends and allies! We, and Bann Teagan, and Arl Eamon! We came north to the Circle Tower for help and it was overrun by demons. One of them overpowered us; this is where he has trapped us. Fergus!"

Her cry of warning was unnecessary. Fergus heard the whisper of steel sliding out of a leather scabbard and by reflex ripped his own blade free and brought it up to block both Nathaniel's sword and Howe's dagger. The blades locked; it took every bit of his strength to keep from sliding downward and letting their combined weight overwhelm him. He realized that they had not been aiming for Leliana or Morrigan; they had been targeting _him_. And Oriana wasn't screaming; why wasn't she screaming?

Morrigan screeched a spell, her husky voice as hoarse as any raven's call, and blinding light shot from her hands and swooped downward to weave a pattern around the Couslands still lingering near the table. Out of the corner of his eye, teeth still clenched with the effort of holding both Howe and Nathaniel at bay, Fergus saw the elaborate patterns of light swell, then constrict to tightly encircle each figure, just before he watched each of his family members, father, mother, and sister, dissolve into shadow and smoke with ear-piercing, inhuman shrieks.

Leliana whipped the bow from her back as Fergus finally threw off both blades from his own and rolled backward, the loose shirt and breeches he had so recently donned seeming to evaporate and transform into a somehow familiar set of plate and chainmail in red steel. Some feet away, Oren's very face seemed to bubble, his limbs quaking and head flung backward, his small diaphragm expanding, swelling, until a creature of mottled, misshapen flesh replaced the image of his son.

Unable to look away, he gaped as what used to be his son staggered forward, groaning and mumbling, frozen as Leliana picked up a deadly dance with the doppelgangers of both Howe men. Seeing Fergus's stunned apathy, Morrigan rushed forward, a sphere of violet energy conjured in her hands which she launched into the very heart of the creature. The monster doubled over as though it had taken a kick to its gut, skin bubbling once more, more violently this time, until it imploded into itself, vanishing into the same smoke and ash that the other specters had.

"Fergus!" Leliana shouted again and tossed him one of her own daggers. He caught it, and turned just in time to lock it in an X with his own sword to catch Rendon Howe's own blades between them.

Harshly, Fergus raised one leg and kicked outward, catching the apparition of the older man in the gut. He doubled over just as the abomination had before and Fergus kicked him again, throwing his father's one-time friend onto his back. It all came spinning back: the assassins painted as darkspawn, being left to die slowly in the dirt, the moment in the tavern when he had heard his family was dead, that he could not defend his own wife and son… that he had failed to…

_Think on your family's sins._

"What about your sins, Rendon Howe?" he demanded, kicking the man harshly once more. The arl hacked a cough in response, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "What about yours?" he shouted, as he lunged forward, dragging Howe upward by the neck, his hands tightening around his enemy's throat. "Last rites; tell me all of your confessions, why don't you, before I watch you die?"

In the background, Nathaniel vanished into shadow and smoke like the rest, dispelled by Morrigan and Leliana's efforts combined. Bow in hand and attention freed, Leliana looked back to Fergus. "Fergus," she said, as gently as she had in the tavern at Lothering, her face as wordlessly sympathetic as it had been on the passage across Lake Calenhad. "Fergus, that's not really—"

"I know," he answered shortly. "I've decided that I don't care." A moment passed. He watched Rendon Howe's gray eyes bulge, his throat too constricted by Fergus's grip to produce words. Almost detachedly, he continued, "For just one moment, I have him. It may not _be_ him but it looks like him, it sounds like him, and it feels like him, and that is enough that I will be damned if I don't feel his life slip away between my fingers for everything he has done to me and mine."

Neither woman responded; apparently Leliana had decided that his immortal soul must no longer be worth saving. With some satisfaction at that, he constricted his fingers further, watched the life seep out of his enemy as though it were squeezed forth like juice from a fruit. It would be enough, just enough to tide him over until the moment when he could face his family's killer in the mortal world, and gratification was only mere moments away…

Then something changed. Howe took a deep, gasping breath: something that should have been impossible given the pressure Fergus was exerting. The man's lips curled into a sly and smirking grin just before his entire body evaporated into smoke and dusty ash just like all the rest.

Fergus's hands hit the floor, palms harshly slapping the stone. "Figures," he muttered after a moment of registering what had just happened. As he climbed back up to his feet, he began, "What the hell is going on any—"

Burning fingers laced themselves around his neck from behind as a harsh cackle sounded from over his shoulder. He lurched backward as his own throat was constricted just as Howe's had been moments ago. Gasping for breath, he began to fall backward, trying desperately to reopen the passage of air.

Leliana's bow was aimed and an arrow notched in a blur of action, its speed rivaled only by the rush of sound and movement as the arrow shot over his shoulder. His assailant screamed and melted downward; he could feel the heat even through his armor. He turned just in time to see his wife dissolve into the stone floor, an arrow buried in her neck.

Expressionless, he looked back to Leliana. The bard covered her mouth. "I am so sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Fergus asked, his voice as emotionless as his face. He reached down to gather his discarded blades from the ground and tossed one back to her. "Your dagger."

"Yours," she said immediately, tossing it back to him. He caught it, looking at her, slightly taken aback. She shrugged. "For when you don't have your shield at the ready."

"Are we quite done?" asked Morrigan, rolling her eyes and stepping forward to the center of the illusion of his family home, calling their attention to a slender-based basin that had seemed to sprout out of the ground like some hideous flower. "I have no desire to be trapped within the Fade for any longer than necessary."

"This is the Fade?" said Fergus, blinking as he and Leliana joined her at the pedestal. Morrigan did not answer, so he looked down onto the apparatus's surface; it seemed a wavering pool of water to his eyes, with protruding carved symbols flickering beneath the surface, welded seamlessly against the bottom of the shallow pool. There seemed five symbols at first, but as he looked longer and focused on one symbol over the others, glowing pathways seemed to splinter off from it and lead to other new symbols: a seemingly endless spider web of patterned lines and pathways linking underwater islands. "What are all of those?"

"Prisons," answered Morrigan just as Leliana replied, "Nightmares." The two women looked at one another and Leliana wordlessly deferred. Fergus didn't blame her, Morrigan _was _the mage here. "The sloth demon has us in thrall," said the witch, "as he does legions of others, all trapped within waking dreams and nightmares. This place is a labyrinth; the moment you find another dreamer, you are instantly separated."

"Yet we are not," Fergus pointed out.

The two women exchanged another look and Fergus found their seemingly seamless collaboration somewhat suspicious. Morrigan cleared her throat. "The demon appears too distracted to effectively manage his realm at present."

"By what?"

"Mordred," answered Leliana quietly after a moment.

Morrigan was silent, seemingly preoccupied with the pedestal and all it implied. Fingertips just brushing the water's surface, she maneuvered her way through the glowing pathways, inspecting the islands, her eyes seeming to reflect entire other worlds Fergus could not visit. "I'm looking," she murmured and even though she spoke, her hands never ceased their navigation of the fluid map. "I'm looking and I keep looking and I can't find him. This is ridiculous; I could even find _you _and a non-mage's signature is not nearly as strong within the Fade."

"Perhaps he never entered the Fade," suggested Fergus, thinking of how the demon at Redcliffe had called Mordred kin. "Perhaps the demon was reluctant to bring a mage or—"

"Oh, yes," Morrigan interrupted irritably, "that would be a brilliant theory if not for the fact that I am in fact a mage as are many of the other dreamers spirited away from the Tower."

"What about Wynne?"

"Oh, who cares about that old biddy?" she shot back at Fergus. "She's not even really one of us and is like to turn her ancient staff on me the moment I try a spell that Mordred doesn't pretend is his doing."

"Morrigan," said Leliana softly, soothingly, "we understand. We'll find him."

"You don't understand!" the witch snapped in return, turning with such force that her fingers sent ripples undulating out from where her hand grazed the water's surface and the very earth beneath them seemed to tremble with the disturbance. "I _need _him."

Several things seemed amiss with that statement, the first being the ludicrousness of a Morrigan needing _anyone_. But her voice was insistent, almost desperate, and therefore rather convincing. But where it was convincing, it was also possessive and not in a lover's manner; more as though Mordred were a favored pen and she refused to write without it.

Fergus nodded slowly, deciding to slot these new thought away to be reexamined later. "Then we'll find him," he stated calmly, meeting her wild eyes.

"And how exactly will we do that?" she demanded.

"You said this was the demon's domain." Morrigan nodded slowly. Fergus looked to the pedestal once more. "Then," he continued, "I say we pay a social call on the lordling of this so-called realm. Besides," he glanced about at the walls of his familial home once more, "I can't get away from here fast enough, now that I've remembered what this place has witnessed in the mortal world."

Like an ancient crone sifting through a hell broth, Morrigan splayed the fingers of one hand across the pedestal's watery surface. With her other hand, she grasped Fergus's wrist while he held tight to Leliana's hand, feeling the calluses of an active archer where the hard disks of skin weathered the otherwise smoothness of her palm. Morrigan leaned in close to the water, her breath fogging up the surface as though the liquid had become a polished pane of Calabrian glass. He felt Leliana's fingers tighten around his as Morrigan plunged her hand down to what seemed the bottom of the shallow pool, now impossibly deep, and blinding light overtook them all.

* * *

Mother Mallol had said that the Fade is where mortal humans and elves go when they dream, all of their eyes shut tight to all of its true reality save those of mages. If this floating green and beige mottled and uneven plain were the truth behind whatever reveries he had had in sleep, Fergus decided that he wasn't missing much.

He tore his eyes away from the ominous view of an island floating without water in the distance, black towers and eerie ghostly light hovering on the horizon like dozens upon dozens of lighthouses. Whether they were beacons to approach or warnings against entrance, he could not say and the citadel was far beyond his reach besides. He turned his attention instead to Morrigan, Leliana, and the creature of misshapen flesh crouched upon the ground, folded into itself like a house whose roof had collapsed inward. Strangely enough, the creature did not make any motion to attack, unlike his doppelganger family in the twisted parody of Highever Castle.

Golden eyes ablaze, Morrigan pressed her palms together just in front of her abdomen, channeling the same violet energy as before, condensing power into a ball the size of a nutshell, just before unleashing the energy. It divided infinitely before settling into four darts of light that swooped forward upon the sole demonic stranger in their midst, yanking it onto its back like the crabs he had watched Thomas Howe torture as a young child on the beach, and pinning it there.

The witch strode forward, furious, and stood over the pinned demon, glaring down at him menacingly for a woman of such slight stature. "Where. Is. He," she demanded, each word brimming with anger that threatened to overflow with catastrophic consequences.

"_My mortal guests,_" wheezed the demon, still glib even as black ichor oozed from the corners of its mouth, "_displeased with your accommodations, I see. I apologize. The greater part of my energy and attention was demanded elsewhere._"

"Morrigan," said Leliana, blue eyes widened with her revelation, "I think… I think it's dying."

"And it's perfectly welcome to do so _after_ it's told me where Mordred is," snapped Morrigan. "Where is he?"

"Did he do this to you?" asked Fergus, voice quieter than the witch's.

The demon's eyes opened and closed slowly, and then finally reopened again. "_The human that is not quite a human_," it remembered, "_the abomination that is not quite an abomination. The willing yet unwilling host. He did not do this. But he is the cause._"

"Where did you put him?" Morrigan demanded.

"_How strange a thing it is to exist in two realms,_" said the demon, seeming to ignore her, "_to fade away in both concurrently. And so slowly. I was a creature of sloth, but never of patience. Your companion never entered my realm._"

"By what?" asked Fergus just as Leliana said, "By whom?"

"_The same that did this,_" was the answer. "_Another with one foot in the water and one foot upon the shore. You will not find your companion here, little magelet. Do you fear the wrath of the one you call mother when she finds out how you have misplaced him?_"

Morrigan was white with rage. "Your 'insider knowledge' is just as useless as that of the minions you sent in a feeble attempt to cage me," she replied shortly. "But its answer would account for why I cannot find him in this realm. Now someone kill the blighted creature so we can go back."

There was suddenly another flash of blinding light as though in answer to her words. When the glow faded and Fergus pulled his hand back from his eyes, the forms of Wynne and an unknown man also in mage's robes had become corporal on the far side of the island. Both hurried across the distance toward Fergus, Morrigan, and Leliana and, upon their approach, he saw that the man appeared to be about the age of the absent warden-commander, perhaps a few years older, with auburn hair and a brooding, doubtful expression present upon his passably good-looking features.

"Well, that would explain that," the unknown mage commented, looking down at the wasting away sloth demon. "If only someone could have done that business a bit sooner… Your doing, I take it?"

The last question being directed at the trio of companions, Fergus and Leliana shook their heads while Morrigan cast her gaze away, seemingly distracted by her own thoughts. The mage appeared slightly let down by the revelation. "Oh. Then who did?"

"This is Niall," said Wynne by way of introduction, "another mage of the Circle who too has been trapped here with us."

"I care little for his name!" Morrigan snapped. "All that matters is that we leave this place and find Mordred."

"Mordred?" Niall blinked. "You brought Mordred back to the Circle? Whose brilliant idea was that?"

"His own," Morrigan shot back as Fergus shrugged.

Niall shook his head, cradling his brow between two fingers. "You couldn't have picked a worse time," he said. "Uldred –the leader of these rebel blood mages, you must have gathered by now –has always had a sick fascination with the poor man and now that Uldred's been possessed... What he turned into wasn't pretty on the outside; I can't imagine what it's done to his judgment."

"We must go back then," said Leliana as Fergus's skin crawled, "and quickly."

"To fight Uldred," said Niall, "you'll need the Litany of Adralla… for the blood magic. You'll have to… you'll have to take it off of my body, when you reach the other side."

"What do you mean?" asked Leliana, a crease between her eyebrows. "You're coming back with us."

"I can't," replied the mage, shaking his head and looking at his shoes. "All the while we've been here trapped, I felt… I can feel my life slipping away. You'll have to go on without me. There's no choice in the matter."

"There's always a choice," said Wynne quietly. Stepping forward, she set down her Circle staff and pressed her palm against the center of Niall's chest. "This uprising, not being able to predict it, to fight it, was not your mistake," she said as her hand began to glow, "it was mine, and Irving's, and the mages we saw through their apprenticeship should not have to pay the price. I'll give you my energy and it _will _be enough."

Wordless, Niall merely stood there as the light seemed to slide beneath his robes and into somewhere between his ribs and the spell finished. It was such a quiet thing, no smoke or explosions, only a stunned Niall and a suddenly pale and slightly sweating Wynne. Somehow, she already seemed less solid to Fergus's eyes. "Go," she said quietly. "Find Irving. You have to go now."

"Wynne," Niall found his voice, reaching out to her, but Morrigan had already driven a bolt of violet energy down into the demon's exposed skull and they were gone.

* * *

They passed by yet another maddened Templar railing at them from beyond the shimmering barriers of a prison, but Fergus, Leliana, Morrigan, and Niall paid his ramblings little mind. If he could be saved, it would have to be dealt with later. The staircase leading to the highest reaches of the Tower was within reach and they would not be distracted now. At least not without Morrigan railing at them again and none of them were eager to provoke her wrath.

Along the way up the spiraling stone steps, Niall explained a series of events that seemed as extraordinary as any Fergus had heard Nan spin at bedtime as a child: a meeting of mages, a proposal of an alliance with the regent rejected in light of shocking revelations over the king's demise, a coven of blood mages revealed within the heart of the Circle itself, the screams of the mages as the demons they summoned overpowered them, Irving shouting for them all to run.

"And so I did," reiterated Niall glumly as they trooped up the staircase. "I ran. We all did. And I got the brilliant idea to find and use the litany –Adralla's litany –too late. We ran headlong into the sloth demon and it was all too late."

"It was not too late," Leliana protested earnestly. "You're here with us now, with the litany in your hands, aren't you?"

"At too great a cost," was his answer. "Wynne was my mentor. Oh, the things Anders and I used to say about her behind her back. I wish I could take them all back now."

"Of course you do," said Fergus grimly. "Everyone wishes they could take things back. The trick is that you can't. You keep moving forward, and you don't look back. Looking back is a trap, little more."

Leliana opened her mouth to say something, but green light shot down the stairwell from the floor above and she was silent. They all stopped in their tracks as the light flashed again, eerie and ghostly in nature. It was a moment before Fergus, mute, jerked his head in the direction it had emanated from and they moved forward and through the archway into the chamber at the Circle Tower's pinnacle.

The green light flashed again, momentarily blinding, as the party crossed the threshold. The massive room –Niall had called it the Harrowing Chamber –had received the same treatment as much of the rest of the tower: the bulbous sacs of fleshy material secreting foul liquid against the walls, the blood and other fluids staining the floor. But beneath the destruction, the room had been beautiful; Fergus could see the immense stained glass windows high above, filtering moonlight to illuminate the horrors the chamber now was privy to.

"Do you accept the gift that I offer?" crooned the mage in robes splattered with dark stains at the center of the room as he cupped the chin of a second man who was huddled in a mess of blood and scorched robes at his feet, his voice something between a mother's coo and a lover's caress. The prisoner nodded fervently, frantically –Fergus recognized the expression of a man beyond desperation, willing to do anything, agree to anything, just to have the agony cease. The mage smiled and unleashed another torrent of green energy. When the glare faded, the man was no more than a misshapen heap of flesh balanced upon a man's slim torso: the monster that his son's visage had transformed into brought into the mortal world.

"Nothing's happening, Uldred," said another mage –an ally of his, evidently –from the other side of the vast chamber. Fergus wanted to point out that clearly something _was _happening, until he saw the mage step back to reveal the form of another man in charred robes, familiar gray-streaked hair slightly singed, collapsed against the flagstones, unmoving. To his left, Fergus heard Morrigan draw in a sharp breath.

"Keep at it," Uldred ordered. "Enough force and the demon will have no choice but to retaliate."

"Any more force and the man is dead," returned the mage cohort.

"Later!" he snapped. "Don't you see that we have guests?" Uldred turned to face Fergus and the others, all hard black eyes and cruel smile. "I suppose it was too much to hope that the sloth demon would pull from your life-forces while it wasted away. Little matter. It seems that fate has been kind to me in offering up two vessels with such great potential."

"Release him," snapped Morrigan, "or I'll bring your skull to the Chasind for them to use as a vessel for their rituals."

"Such fire," breathed Uldred, clearly enticed, "such beauty. I can see why the poor boy is so taken. It must have been you he screamed for, at first. But he's been lying to you, you see. He's been lying to us all, and must be punished, as will you all, for being so uncooperative."

"It just never ends," Fergus muttered, thinking of the betrayal after betrayal, the demon after demon they were forced to confront.

"A mage is just a larval form of something greater!" Uldred continued, zealous in his preaching. "Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us 'abominations' when we have merely reached our full potential!"

"What you have created here is evil," Leliana snapped, blue eyes as furious as Morrigan's, "and, Chantry or no Chantry, it is the Maker's will that we stand against it."

"Pity that you feel that way," Uldred sighed. "Little matter. You all are but thorns in my side and I will remove you, just as I removed the others, as I will remove Irving and the others the moment they bear witness to my triumph!"

"He's transforming!" Niall shouted, apparently knowing what the symptoms were, and dove to one side. Fergus merely stared, watching as Uldred grew and swelled and bubbled, the only coherent thought in his head Mordred's voice: _"__There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in any nobleman's education."_

"Get back!" Leliana cried, shoving her shoulder hard into Fergus's chest and toppling him backward. There was a swipe of movement and the hiss of a spell and the monster that had been Uldred was motionless, frozen in its tracks, encased in ice, one claw extended into the place where Fergus had been moments before.

He blinked up at the most hideous ice sculpture in all of Thedas, wondering if that would be all it would take, just one spell and it was over. But even as relief hesitantly coursed through his system, there was the sound of splintering ice just like the time Eliante fell through the frozen pond outside of Highever, and Uldred shattered his frozen prison with a roar.

Ice flew everywhere. Fergus raised his shield to block Leliana and him from the worst of it, but it wasn't enough to block Uldred's subsequent charge. He grunted with pain as his back hit the wall and Leliana hit his chest, the stained glass window to their immediate right shattering with the force of the impact. He pushed her to the side, far out of Uldred's predictable trajectory screwed up his courage, prepared for another blow, but nothing came.

Instead, the monster turned to the mage that had announced Mordred's condition and spoke in a slippery, slithering voice nothing like Uldred's afore heard obnoxious tones: "_Do you accept the gift that I offer?_"

"The litany!" Niall yelled. "Morrigan, give me the litany!"

She tossed him the book. He scrambled to find the right page as the green light began to glow once more. He shouted an incantation and white light dispelled the green. Uldred howled in pain.

"Again!" Fergus shouted, brandishing his sword and charging forward. "Niall, again!"

He obeyed. It was like whittling down a sliver of wood, or hacking through the trunk of a tree. Slowly, they pulled the monstrous Uldred from one side of the chamber to another, distracting the beast while Niall gathered his energy and swallowed lyrium to fuel each stanza of the litany.

"Again!" Fergus commanded once more, sensing that the end was near. Niall obeyed and finally, the monster Uldred had become staggered and teetered from massive clawed foot to foot before collapsing in a heap upon the flagstones.

There was a moment where they all simply stood there and breathed, registering the gravity of what had just happened, what they had just done, broken only when Morrigan raced across the chamber to where Mordred had been left like some child's discarded ragdoll. Niall quickly joined her as she ripped open and peeled back the warden-commander's robes away from his chest, revealing lightning burns and open wounds as though someone had taken several blades and sliced them down across his abdomen and chest to create shallow yet profusely bleeding wounds that made Fergus pale to see.

"He's still breathing," Niall announced over his shoulder as Morrigan merely tore strips from the less charred areas of Mordred's clothing to create bandages. "He'll be fine, given time. Someone see to Irving there in the corner."

Leliana obeyed, seeing the old bearded man Niall had referred to. After a moment of diagnosis, she called back, "He's fine too."

"Good," said Fergus shortly. "We'll take a few moments here and then start back down the tower." Nothing more to say, he merely turned away from the others, gazing through the shattered window to the shore across the lake, mind already on Teagan and Redcliffe, trying to forget about the waking dreams and nightmares that this tower had held for him.

* * *

_I don't like Wynne. Sorry. I like Niall and I wanted to explore his character and friendship with Mordred further._

_Also I found the sloth demon encounter in the game to be a void of wasted potential. A nightmare/trap tailored to each origin would have been fantastic (City Elf's life with the betrothed he/she lost, Circle Mage becoming an enchanter, Dalish Elf hunting with Tamlen, Merrill, and Co., etc.). So I consider myself a superior sloth demon. _

_As always, infinite thanks to reviewers. You brighten my day considerably. Now that the writing bug has hit me again, maybe my chapters will be less bleh. I need to go back and edit the last and add some sections. I'll let you know when that's done._


End file.
